


TITANOMACH I | Triumvirate

by Xabiar



Series: TITANOMACH [1]
Category: Destiny (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate History, Alternate Universe, Destiny, Espionage, Gen, Politics, Rebellion, Superpowers, Terrorism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-26
Updated: 2020-11-29
Packaged: 2021-01-04 00:49:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 17
Words: 196,850
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21188792
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Xabiar/pseuds/Xabiar
Summary: Earth rests within the iron grip of the Triumvirate. Suppression, surveillance, and manipulation are tools used to maintain and expand their power. Rebels and terrorists persist in a futile rebellion, and independent nations struggle to endure under political and economic pressure. On the brink of victory, the course of Earth is forever changed by an anomaly hovering over Mars.





	1. Introduction

This story is based on the Destiny series by Bungie

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This story is an alternate universe, and will not follow canon established in the games

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This story may contain material, themes, and characters some may find disturbing

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Please note that content within this story does not necessarily reflect the views or opinions of myself or those who have assisted in its creation

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I do not own anything explicitly mentioned or presented in any Destiny media

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Please note that reviews may contain spoilers

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Beta Readers: Edumesh, Sevoris, HailtotheKing, and Aberron

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Cover art done by HailtotheKing

***

**DRAMATIS PERSONAE**

[Please note that not all characters are listed)

**Clovis Bray** | General Secretary of the Central Committee

**Hayden Fox** | Director of the Triumvirate Intelligence Service

**Isaiah Kane** | Commander of the Dead Cell

**Valentin Kozhukhov** | Soviet Cosmonaut

**Fang Sov** | Chinese Taikonaut

**Hamaza el-Hussein** | Supreme Leader of the Islamic Republic in Exile

***

**FORWARD**

I have very complicated opinions towards Destiny to put it lightly. There are many things I love about it, and a lot I really, really don’t. The art direction, music, some of the lore, and most of what comprises the actual _game_ ranges from good to brilliant. It’s a fun game to play, and that is why many people do. Bungie can make a good game, I doubt that’s necessarily in dispute.

Where the problems arise from me personally is the story of the game. There are many problems with it on a fundamental level that as of Shadowkeep, have not been addressed. Everything from glaring plot holes, inconsistent rules, absurd amounts of plot armor, unintimidating villains, and mentally challenged characters come together as something that seems cohesive on the surface, but begins to fall apart when you start to dissect it just below the surface.

Despite much of the lore being well-written, it ultimately fails in fixing the fundamental problems with Destiny. I remain unsure if this is due to the constraints of the type of game Destiny is, or because they really don’t know how to fix it. I know there are a good many people (Edumesh in particular), who don’t necessarily agree with this, but it’s important to understand the perspective I’m writing this story from.

I don’t want to say that this is ‘fixing’ Destiny, because that’s not what the goal of the story is, not really. Readers of my work know that I tend to take the pieces of what already exists and make something different, and that is what I’m doing here, hence my defining this as an alternate universe. While it _will_ be a bit more consistent and logical across the board, please don’t go into this expecting a slightly different, transcribed, or ‘fixed’ version of canon.

Every single aspect of Destiny I’ve either reworked, expanded, or removed. To reiterate, this is not the same universe as the games. Fundamental aspects of the universe, especially as it relates to Paracausality, have been changed to be consistent and reflective of their actual capabilities.

Major players and factions have been expanded and reworked. The Traveler is not the only one of her kind. The armies of the Darkness number in the trillions, faced by Guardian Orders of thousands of species. The conflict between Light and Darkness wages far beyond our Solar System. Rasputin is not the only Warmind. There are more changes, but those will come out later.

It’s important to set expectations, especially for people not as familiar with my work. Consistency, intrigue, and politics will be driving the story; there will be takes on events and characters that you may not like. There will be characters and factions that may make you uncomfortable. Not everyone is going to like my take on this series, and that’s fine. I am far from the only Destiny writer out there.

As far as adaption goes, many events in the games will simply not happen at all or the context will likely be different. The overall tone won’t be as light as the games, but I don’t really intend to go too far in the opposite direction either. It won’t always be straightforward, clean, or comfortable, but in the end, I hope that it is _impactful_.

Destiny is a setting that has significant potential; it’s why I’m writing about this at all. Despite significant flaws, it has captured my imagination in a way that few pieces of media have, and if nothing else, it should be commended for at least trying to do something ambitious. The games may not overcome these narrative hurdles, but there are signs that it could happen. But if not, I hope to, if not at least reach this potential, create something interesting that people will enjoy.

To speak some more on the story you are about to read, my plans with it are the following: this first trilogy will cover the events from the arrival of the Traveler, through the First War of the Darkness, to the waning days of the Collapse (Books I, II, and III respectively), ending just around the time Destiny 1 would start. There may be supplementary material that also comes with it, but likely not until after the first book.

After that, there will be a series that spans the time of the games, though only generalities have been worked out so far. There will be an end, and by the time we get to that, hopefully Bungie will have concluded the series properly, but we’ll see.

As far as how often this will be updated, I can’t make any promises on that. I’m mostly writing this now so I don’t have to wait 6 years until other projects are done. As of the time of writing this, XCOM: The Advent Directive is still ongoing and that will remain my priority. I’ll be writing for this intermittently, as something of a side project. I wouldn’t expect it to go months without an update, but it probably won’t be as frequent, nor the chapters quite as long…which may end up improving my output.

Ah well, I guess we’ll see.

A final thing to say is that effectively everything here has been developed with Edumesh, who introduced me to Destiny in the first place. He is to thank for why I’m writing this now, and little if anything at all would be like it is now without his input. He’s likely going to be making some direct contributions in the future too, so look forward to that.

Thank you for reading, and I hope you enjoy it and look forward to any thoughts you have on it.

\- Xabiar


	2. Prologue | Patriot-3

**SANCTUARY CITY | EARTH**

Standing alone on a hill, a humanoid figure looked upon a sprawling city.

A closer look revealed that it was not a Human, nor was it even technically alive. A chassis tall enough to make most Humans feel small stood with unnerving silence, merely appraising with a machine’s focused efficiency. Hydraulics and metal passed for skin and bones on the machine, and oil ran through the body in lieu of blood.

Yet this machine had a history, albeit one which was vague enough to imply anything. The chassis was scratched and dented; faded blue and white coating the body in color, with scuffed and faded emblems emblazoned onto the shoulders and back.

_Exo._

Even if she didn’t know anything else, she knew that was what she _was._

She didn’t know how she had been made at all. Her life before awakening was unknown, something only filled with blank spaces and question marks. Yet there were subtle clues she’d seen, which if they didn’t explain who _she _was, at least gave answers as to what she had been created _for_.

The full anatomical knowledge of Humans was hardwired into her memory, along with technical specifications of so many weapons and systems, along with how to use them. If she’d been given a random weapon, she could probably identify it. She could rewind her memories back to the point of her awakening, and recall each and every word, syllable, and sight experienced in her short time awake.

She did not breathe. She did not eat. She did not sleep. She could run for days and not tire. She could walk while moving in near silence. The tips of her fingers could extend into talons and her wrists held blades and a short-range flamethrower. Her fist was durable enough to cave in the skulls of wildlife and aliens. Her grip tight enough to crush flesh and steel.

It was clear she had been built for war, though one that had long since ended.

She’d accepted this fact, appreciative that she knew even a little bit, but had largely given up hope of ever being able to learn her past on her own. Although she idly wondered which side she had fought for – and if it was the right one. Ultimately moot in her case, as computers didn’t fix themselves like that.

And when it came down to it, that’s what she was. A computer. A weapon. Artificial.

Something aware, but not alive. Something real, but a derivative. A machine made in the image of something else. A tool, a weapon, not a person.

At the same time, she _felt _with an intensity that even surprised her.

_Curiosity_ at the mysteries of her life and where she had come. _Fear_ at the dark nights of Earth as aliens wielding strange weapons and wildlife whose teeth dripped with poison came to hunt her. _Revulsion_ at the sight of the corrupted fields and wells of tainted water. _Relief_ from knowing she didn’t have to rely on sustenance to live.

Maybe she only felt pale imitations of emotion, but it seemed odd she felt it at all.

Machines probably shouldn’t be capable of that.

No logical reason to let a machine _feel_.

Yet she did nonetheless.

It had been a very long trek from where she’d awakened – or more accurately, been _repaired_. When the blue lights of her optical receptors had come online, there had been a brief, overwhelming rush of utter panic – before it had vanished completely. And overhead, her savior had hovered with an almost playful innocence, as he now did by her shoulder.

It was a curious little machine. Small enough to fit in the palm of her hand, but as it had proven in their long trek, it could probably kill her without much difficulty if it chose. A bright blue light which served as an eye and the core was armored by eight ‘points’ or ‘fins’ which could move, detach, and be manipulated to surprising degrees, making it oddly expressive.

She’d tried figuring out how it could possibly work, and had given up a long time ago.

One thing was certain though, without it, her trek across the corrupted Earth would have been lonely indeed. It called itself a Ghost, for reasons it claimed to not know; though it somehow knew quite a lot about everything else – or at least implied as much. She’d half-considered the idea that she was being led into a trap, but something told her that she could trust the little machine.

After all, if it really hadn’t wanted to help her, it would have left her rusting under the rubble.

“So,” she said, a female voice tinged with an electronic lint. “We made it.”

“Yes, and they’ve finished the seventh ring,” the Ghost bobbed excitedly. “So much progress has been made! I’d like to see the Fallen attack _this_ time!”

The “Fallen”, the name it had called the aliens that had tried attacking her. A name that seemed pointlessly vague and demanded more questions than answers. Initially she’d thought they were more advanced, as she didn’t recognize any of the weapons they’d used, weapons which had clearly not been designed for humanoid anatomy, which was why she hadn’t salvaged any of their weapons.

Though they weren’t especially dangerous. Well, at least the ones she’d encountered hadn’t been.

The city was impressive to her eyes; and the comment on the ‘seventh ring’ made more sense when she saw that _rings_ actually meant _walls._ The walls were rings that extended outwards, gradually growing larger and larger. Within were what seemed to be houses and stores…though as she used her eyes to zoom in, she confirmed that it seemed definitely closer than a military installation than a regular ‘city’. Flashing lights from hovering vehicles created skylines which were filled with small speeders and vehicles that dove and rose, making the immediate airspace over the city notably crowded.

There were massive guns which dotted the rings of walls, with soldiers both standing guard and patrolling the streets and walls. Quite a few of them seemed to have Ghosts of their own – meaning the little machine escorting her wasn’t unique. She’d assumed that, given how it talked, but she’d not really been sure _what_ it was.

It had been able to repair her, though was vague about how. It was able to fire beams of energy from it’s eye. To some extent it was able to purge the corruption throughout the world, and other times had performed feats that seemed impossible, from appearing to make materials out of thin air, to reducing a half-dozen Fallen into molecular slurry, while practically bubbling about how ‘the ground would be well-fed’.

That was when she figured out that it was a rather homicidal little death ball. Almost cute if it wasn’t utterly deadly.

She’d made a point to be nice to it.

War platform, psychotic maintenance machine, rogue experiment, she’d considered all of this, and why she hadn’t thought to consider it a military support unit, she didn’t know, but that now seemed the strongest candidate. Still, it didn’t explain the borderline fantastical things she’d seen it do, though the Ghost had delayed explaining itself, or done a poor job of it. It liked to ramble, which she now wondered if it was a security measure to keep it from explaining anything too important.

In the middle of the city was the clear centerpiece – a tower that starched far above the city, almost ludicrously high. It was just as well-defended and armed as the rest of the city, and she could only guess at how heavily defended it was inside. But it was what hung above it that commanded attention.

“It’s big,” she said quietly.

“Very much so,” the Ghost concurred. “Forever vigilant over Sanctuary.”

Hovering precariously over the Earth was a celestial sphere, one whose white surface reflected the setting sun. There were visible markings and patterns which she couldn’t tell if they were damage or ritualistic, but they ran throughout the shell. Though what stood out was the stark _coldness_ of the sphere.

A dead thing whose reach still impacted the living.

She’d seen the Traveler in the distance, of course. It was impossible to miss it, and it was then when the Ghost had told her what it was called. Even from far away it was imposing and impressive. But standing before the city - right _under _it - she could see how large it really was. There was a slight tinge of fear in her core too, a fear that the thread holding it back would snap and it would fall to Earth, killing everyone below.

She crossed her arms. “It looks dead.”

The Ghost’s fins whirled as it seemed to contemplate. “Not dead, simply recovering.”

“Right,” she looked to the outermost wall – and realized that there were some on the patrols that had stopped. Zooming in closer she saw the sniper rifles trained on her, though they held off firing. Unfortunately, it seemed her knowledge banks were out of date, because these soldiers _also_ carried weapons she didn’t recognize. “Uh, I think they see me.”

“Don’t worry,” the Ghost said, floating a little ahead of her, before turning and indicating the path. “Come on, they won’t attack.”

With some reluctance, she began walking down the path to the city entrance. At least here the landscape was more…pleasant. There were no signs of the rotting, twisted, and utterly _unnatural_ vegetation she’d seen in the past weeks, nor were there any signs of violence, be it from aliens, Humans, or wildlife.

Made sense that they’d tamed the land around the city.

There were a large number of farms and developed land, though even it was not untouched by the militarization. Guards also stood outside of outposts, and drones flew overhead, hovering for any potential threats. There were a few civilians around, but they moved away when they saw her coming, while the guards watched her warily.

“Is this the only one left?” She asked as she approached, glancing up again at the defunct Traveler.

“The only city?” The Ghost whirred. “Oh no! There have been many more established since the Collapse. There are other sanctuaries on Earth, and many outposts have been reestablished throughout Sol. Recovery continues, slowly but surely.”

“Hmm.” She disliked the Ghost continuing to be vague and allude and speak to things she had no context or knowledge of. It was obvious some great cataclysm had befallen this planet, the “Collapse”, but the words thrown at her were so vague as to be meaningless. With how much the Ghost had deflected or outright refused to answer her questions, she was growing more certain that it was some kind of programming block preventing them from answering unless certain criteria were met.

Well, the Ghost had promised answers. If whatever it was leading her to didn’t have them, there had to be _someone_ here to help her. If necessary, she’d ditch the Ghost, though it wouldn’t be surprising if it followed her. Preferably she’d do that without the machine noticing, otherwise it might jovially kill her.

Could be a problem

_I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it._

“Should I do something?” She shot a nervous glance to the ever-imposing walls where she saw the rifles aimed, even without zooming closer. “They look antsy.”

“No, they don’t fire upon visitors, trust me,” the Ghost assured her. “They’ll send down one of us shortly – ah, and here one comes.”

Sure enough, another Ghost floated from the shoulders of one of the snipers. This one though was _not_ the same as the one tagging along by her. It was closer to a perfect sphere with a red eye. Were it not for the exact same identifying core, she would have wondered if it was something completely different.

“Please hold still for identification,” the Ghost commanded in a much deeper voice opposed to her own Ghost’s more flippant and airy one. Her body was covered in a glowing red mesh as the Ghost scanned her. “Identification not found. State reason for entry.”

“I’ve found and repaired her,” her Ghost answered. “I’m taking her to the Speaker.”

The black Ghost appraised her, swiveled to face the opposite Ghost, and hovered for a few long critical seconds, making her wonder if she should say something. But without so much as a word, the Ghost simply turned away and flew back up to hover behind the shoulder of the sniper, who withdrew his weapon, with those beside him following suit.

“There!” The Ghost said cheerfully. “Simple. This way, the Speaker is not far now.”

***

**THE TOWER | SANCTUARY CITY | EARTH**

The inside of the city was a lot less militant than it seemed from the outside.

There were people out and about, mostly Humans but there were some blue-skinned figures that the Ghost had called “Awoken” which he had unsurprisingly failed to elaborate on, and there were also other Exos like her – in the sense that they were mechanical humanoids. Most of them didn’t match her model, and if she had to guess, they were an advanced or modified model.

She was still taller than many of them though, and she had a few heads turn to her as she walked through the crowds, though not in alarm. The Ghost hovering beside her seemed to reassure everyone that she was a friend. Still, she didn’t fail to notice that there seemed to be two or three Humans following her covertly.

Maybe she was being paranoid.

The city was notably clean as well, with the streets being minimally dirty and the buildings lacking any rot or vegetation growing along the walls. There didn’t seem to be a janitorial crew, but there were little machines that she saw occasionally move through the street, both on the ground and floating like the Ghosts. Cleaning robots, most likely.

Not that there wasn’t any kind of vegetation. There were neatly curated rows of trees and plants along the sidewalks and streets, but all heavily controlled and managed by machines as well. There were a lot of flowers too, which she guessed would probably sweeten the air, had she been able to smell.

But there was a definitely a subtler military presence. She didn’t see any more of the soldiers, at least not the ones manning the walls. There _were_ armored figures roaming the streets and standing as supposed ‘guards’, but there wasn’t really a coherent uniform, nor were they armed.

Some had Ghosts of various shapes hovering over their shoulders, while others didn’t. They seemed friendly with the people too, with a couple of the guards playing some ball game with a group of children in a nearby field. She did think that it was an illusion to some degree. If it was really safe, then there wouldn’t be layers of walls nor patrols of soldiers.

The Tower was close now, and like the Traveler, up close it was _massive_ and it seemed that the closer they got to the Tower, the less crowded it was and the more secure it became. After they passed the fifth ring of walls, the one where the tower lay, she saw she was definitely in what was effectively a military camp.

There were shooting ranges on the gray concrete that stretched out throughout the area, which oddly had no obvious barracks. The soldiers likely lived in the city itself then. The base was not completely devoid of structures, warehouses and storehouses were dotted throughout, along with rows of tanks she didn’t recognize the models of.

Now close to the Tower, she saw that were some details she’d failed to notice initially. From a distance it looked like a typical cylinder tower with a guarded top and a uniform outside; up close it was less so. There was no smooth exterior, and was instead fitted with openings that could be opened and shuttered at will. “Is there something in there?” She asked, pointing.

“Yes, our fighters,” the Ghost explained, bobbing in the air. “Or bombers. Or whatever our fleet is. It always changes depending on the mood of the pilots. If the city is ever attacked, the doors open and our fleet is released!”

“Huh,” so the Tower effectively functioned as a hangar. Fascinating and rather impressive from an architectural standpoint. A good space saver too, though the comment about the ‘fleet constantly changing’ seemed odd, but there was probably some context she was missing.

The true entrance to the Tower was up a flight of steps and through a large open door guarded by towering soldiers in white battle armor, though each was accented with unique colors, markings, and slightly altered details and helmets, making them far from a uniform bunch.

They appraised her suspiciously as she approached, with all of them having Ghosts of their own, except the lone male Exo, for some reason. “Titans,” the Ghost whispered, floating close to her ear as if sharing a secret. “Let me do the talking.”

She clamped her mouth shut and decided to do just that. “Access to the Tower is restricted,” the leading Titan stated in a firm voice, stepping forward. “I can’t stop you, Ghost, but I don’t recognize her.”

He was massive, even managing to stand taller than her. Orange color accented his armor, and he held a weapon she didn’t recognize, though it looked like a shotgun, with a monstrous pistol strapped to his thigh. Even more curiously, there was a blade of some kind anchored diagonally to his back. This was definitely a soldier no one would want to mess with.

He appraised her more closely. “For that matter, I don’t recognize your model.”

“I’m taking her to see the Speaker,” the Ghost explained with a bounce. “She’s been repaired, and requires answers.”

“Yeah, and twelve new Guardian candidates were selected this week, and none of them saw the Speaker,” the Titan rebuffed, turning his helmet back to the Ghost. “She needs to be processed – and in her case _upgraded_ – then trained like all of the others.”

“She’s _not_ like the others,” the Ghost insisted, floating around her for emphasis. “Trust me, the Speaker _will_ want to see her.”

“Sorry, but I’m going to need a better reason,” the Titan shook his massive head. “No offense to you, ma’am, but we don’t just open the Tower for everyone. Apologies if he gave you the wrong impression.”

“Look at the emblem on her shoulder,” the Ghost hovered directly over it. “Take another _good_ look.”

An audible sigh sounded from the Titan as he shifted and took a look at the purported emblem. She expected him to only look at it a few seconds, but instead didn’t move the helmet long enough that it was almost awkward. “Confirm, please,” he said to the gray Ghost hovering over his shoulder.

A bright beam of blue light flashed as the Ghost scanned the emblem. The Ghost then proceeded to float around, scanning her entire chassis. “Scan finished,” the Ghost said, an accented female voice sounding. “Confirmation – First Generation Triumvirate American Exo. PATRIOT-Class.”

She was grateful for the lack of expression on her face. Had she not been a machine, she would have noticeably started in surprise.

The other Titans looked at her with new interest, though fortunately didn’t seem hostile at the confirmation – or revelation. The lead Titan cocked his head, his tone less confrontational than before. “Where did you come from, ma’am?”

She shrugged. “I don’t remember. I don’t know who I am.”

The Titan looked to the Ghost. “Corrupted memory?”

“She was heavily degraded,” the Ghost said with some degree of pride. “It took an extensive amount of time to return her to functionality. Memory loss was an unfortunate side effect. As I said, the Speaker will want to see her.”

“Agreed,” the Titan muttered, shooting a glance at her Ghost. “Alright. Follow me ma’am. I know this may be confusing, but it’s best if the Speaker himself explains your situation.”

“Perfect!” The Ghost whirred joyfully, spinning the fins around.

“And you stop talking,” the Titan ordered the Ghost, pointing a finger at him. “She’s probably tired of your nonstop chatter. And your upbeat psychotic behavior.”

“It’s fine,” she placated with a waved hand, feeling obligated to defend the machine, if only because she didn’t want it to randomly vaporize her. “It would have been a lonely walk without him.”

“Your tolerance for homicidal machines is greater than mine,” he said dryly, motioning to follow her. “This way please. I’ll take you to the Speaker.”

***

**TOWER ENTRANCE | THE TOWER | EARTH**

The inside of the Tower was as grandiose as the outside. It was bustling with activity from armored, robed, and uniformed men and women of different species (though still mostly Humans) performing their duties and going to their workstations. There appeared to be two ways of ascending the Tower, using a ramp that wrapped around the outside of the wall that went up to each level, or using the elevators in the center.

Considering how tall the tower was, and the apparent urgency of the Titan, they entered the elevators.

She rubbed her wrists with some awkwardness as the elevator started. “Oh, this is exciting!” The Ghost bubbled. “I haven’t seen the Speaker in _so_ long.”

“Why not?” She asked, glancing up at it.

“Because he’s a bloodthirsty little machine,” the Titan chuckled wryly. “Isn’t that right, Little Psycho?”

The Ghost bobbed indignantly. “I take offense to that name. It is _hurtful_.” It bowed his eye so dramatically that she had to sigh – or at least simulate the motion.

“Oh really?” The Titan asked sarcastically, shaking his head, amused.

She glanced back to the Ghost. “‘Little Psycho’?”

“_Certain_ people around here like to call me that,” the Ghost turned to almost glare at the Titan. “Probably jealous of my impressive capabilities. Name another Ghost who has faced a Kell on his own!”

“He’s one of the more _infamous_ Ghosts,” the Titan explained, not answering the challenge while leaning against the wall of the elevator. “I’m surprised he found you at all. Normally he’s more interested in hunting Eliksni.”

“I prefer being _proactive_,” the Ghost defended. “Besides, it’s not like it hurts anyone! Except them, obviously.”

“Eliksni?” She asked hesitantly.

“Four-armed aliens,” the Titan answered, with a wave of his hand. “Hunt in groups; the ones on Earth are largely disorganized and from minor Houses.”

She nodded, recognizing some of what he was saying. “Oh, the Fallen?”

“That is their…unofficial name,” the Titan said tiredly, fixing the Ghost with a helmeted glare. “Simple and all-encompassing, not surprised that’s why he called them. Don’t particularly like it since it trivializes how complex the Eliksni situation _is_. I don’t even know where that name came from.”

“Ahem, I beg to differ,” the Ghost responded. “The situation is actually simple! All Fallen pose a threat to the Traveler, a threat I take great pride in reducing!”

“_Torturing_.” The Titan corrected, lifting a finger.

Her eyes shined brighter. “What?”

The Titan tried booping the Ghost on the eye with a finger, though the Ghost easily floated out of the way. “He’s not called the Little Psycho for nothing.”

“Lies and slander!” The indignant Ghost protested.

“But true,” the Titan’s Ghost added. “Sorry.”

The Exo let out a small yelp as the Little Psycho shot a weak beam of energy at the Titan’s Ghost, which literally _vanished_ and reappeared a few inches away from where it had been shot. “Insipid maniac!” The gray Ghost practically sputtered in response.

“Liar!”

The Titan smacked both of the Ghosts with surprising swiftness as they started encircling each other. “Both of you knock it off!”

“She insulted me!” The Ghost implored to the Titan.

“Yes, and if I remember, you once removed the skin of an Eliksni to see _if_ it would kill it,” the Titan answered knowingly. “So I wouldn’t take offense so readily. Unless you’re going a bit easier on the Fallen now?”

The Ghost whirred defiantly, almost insulted. “I would _never_!”

She blinked. “You did what?”

“I performed a few tests, that _certain people_ in the Guardians are not especially comfortable with,” if it was possible for a machine to look guilty, the Ghost _definitely_ looked guilty, though somehow still defiant. “But it wasn’t intentional! How was I supposed to know that wouldn’t kill it?”

“Using common sense?” The Titan’s Ghost asked rhetorically.

The Little Psycho simply made an electric sputter.

“I think you made the point,” the Titan glanced to the Exo with an apologetic shrug. “Don’t worry though, he’s perfectly harmless around us. So far.”

“I see,” she muttered, not sure how to feel about owing her life to what appeared to be a homicidal death robot who was incessantly cheerful. The elevator was finally coming to the top level, and it opened into a new floor. She followed the Titan to a nearby chamber which was filled with papers, electronics, crystals, and weapons all stacked along the walls. In the center was a bowl-like table that projected a hologram of the Sol System, and a staircase ascended to an upper level wrapped along the circular chamber.

Sitting at one of the tables was a robed figure who heard them enter and stood to greet them. His robes seemed interlayered and colored a soft white. They seemed to offer no protection, aside from the small gray pads that covered his shoulders. Black gloves covered his hands and a black shawl wrapped around his head like a hood.

His face though was obscured by a rounded white mask that in some ways reminded her of a vertically elongated hexagon, with some slits and gaps lining the mask, though no obvious eye slits that she could see. There were no visible emblems other than crisscrossed lines that were faintly overlaying his robes, and a three-pronged triangle-like symbol on the center of his shawl near his neck.

From the way he stood and appraised them, this was definitely a figure of authority.

“Welcome,” he said in a slow, soft, but commanding voice, as he inclined his head.

“Apologies for the unannounced visit, Speaker,” the Titan placed a fist over his chest in greeting. “But we have something – or I should say, _someone_ you should meet. The Little Psycho brought her here himself.”

“So I see,” the Speaker noted, stepping towards her. “I haven’t seen this model in a very, very long time.” He waited a few seconds before addressing her directly. “I am curious - what do you remember? If anything at all?”

She shook her head. “Nothing.”

He nodded, before motioning to the Ghost and Titan. “Thank you. I will speak to her alone now.”

The Little Psycho flew away and the Titan nodded, though spoke to her first. “When you’re finished, I’ll be waiting for you outside.”

“Thank you,” she told him. “I’m sorry – I didn’t even ask your name.”

He paused. “Lucas Song, Striker Division and Fireteam Commander. It was good to meet you…”

“Patriot-3.”

“Patriot-3,” he repeated. “I like that one. I hope you get the answers you want.” He turned and departed, leaving her alone with the Speaker. There were a few more long seconds of silence before the Speaker addressed her again.

“Allow me another question,” the Speaker laced his fingers together. “Your name – is it your true name? The one you were created with?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know, but that’s what my HUD identifies me as. I don’t have a better one. So that’s who I am now.”

“Understandable,” he motioned to a chair which she sat down in, as he took the one opposite her. “I imagine you have questions, and also suspect the Ghost was not forthcoming.”

“Not really,” she admitted. “Are they always like that?”

“Evasive? Vague? It depends,” the Speaker answered. “Programming restrictions by the Traveler. They are only fully able to be honest around Guardians, so while they are friendly, their vagueness can grind on certain people. Once they deem you trustworthy, they are among our most reliable allies and friends.”

She shot a glance to the door. “I assume they’re not usually that…ah...violent?”

The Speaker chuckled. “Usually not. There was a time when they were much more restrained, though since the Collapse they’ve developed some…interesting personalities, the Little Psycho among them. But given the state the Traveler is in, one cannot blame a Ghost from wishing to protect her with all their power, if not avenge.”

Patriot-3 cocked her head. “_Her_?”

“Yes, ‘her’,” the Speaker confirmed, appearing to be amused. “A bit unexpected, I know.”

She gave an electronic snort, thinking of the massive celestial object floating above the planet. “How does that even _work_?”

“I admittedly don’t know why she identifies as such, nor asked,” the Speaker said nonchalantly. “You identify as a female despite technically being a collection of metal parts, mechanical fluids and circuit boards. The same principle applies to the Traveler. An ultimately minor detail I don’t see a desire to question or debate, let alone judge.”

“Fair point,” she agreed. “So, you…speak for her then?”

“Yes, though she is still quiet now; recovering,” he confirmed. “Only myself and the Ghosts can communicate with her directly. Her wishes and commands are few and vague, but I know she trusts me to lead us out of the Collapse – a mission I have done my best to see completed, even as I strive to heal the trauma she endured.”

She nodded. “I see. How long has she been like this?”

“A long time,” the Speaker answered quietly. “Centuries. Though you being here is a sign of recovery. If even that particular Ghost is starting to seek out new Guardians, it is a sign she is growing stronger. Previously they were largely left to their own devices and to assist us. If she is taking greater control…it bodes well.”

Shifting in her seat, Patriot-3 decided to get down to the burning questions. “Look - I don’t know who or what I am – but I think you do.”

“I can’t speak to who _you_ were,” the Speaker said regretfully after a few seconds. “But I most certainly know _what_ you are.”

“You said you haven’t seen one like me in a long time,” she recalled. “How long, exactly?”

The Speaker leaned back into his chair. “If my estimate is right, it has been close to seven hundred years.”

Patriot-3 felt an electric surge of shock. Both that she was _that_ old – and that the Speaker seemed to be as well from his earlier comments. “How is that possible?” She wondered aloud. “How was there anything left of me?”

“That,” the Speaker noted, steepling his fingers. “Is an excellent question, though one we will address in due time. The insignia on the shoulder – do you recognize it?”

“I can’t even see it.”

The Speaker raised a hand and golden energy materialized around his wrist, before forming into a glowing golden symbol in front of an uplifted palm. It was a shield, with six stars within it. “Do you recognize this?”

She shook her head. A waggle of his fingers and the images shifted to other emblems and insignias. Four golden stars, an ornate wheel, a hammer and sickle; at each one she shook her head, feeling like she should know these, but the explanations eluded her. Finally, the Speaker lowered his hand back into his lap.

“It isn’t surprising,” he said. “In your condition, it was unlikely to result in even partial memory. No matter. You’re a very unique individual, Patriot-3, you come from a time before the Traveler. Before the Guardians.”

“Was there a war?” She asked the obvious question. “The world…it seems like there was something. Something that almost killed everyone.”

“There was,” the Speaker nodded. “A cataclysm that almost destroyed us. Darkness that descended upon the Traveler. She pushed it back, but at great cost. Only now is the worst of the Collapse beginning to fade.” He shook his head. “But you did not fall in that war. You fell in one much earlier, back when the Triumvirate controlled Earth. Back before the Traveler arrived.”

“Who were they?” She asked. “What happened to them?”

The Speaker released a breath, as his voice became melancholic – and almost sorrowful. “That is a long story, but one I will tell you. Ensure you are comfortable, Patriot-3, I suspect we will be here for some time.”

***

TO BE CONTINUED IN **CHAPTER I | ARRIVAL**


	3. Chapter I | Arrival

**ACT I | THE TYRANT’S MALEVOLENCE**

***

**CHAPTER I | ARRIVAL**

***

**TRIUMVIRATE INTELLIGENCE COMMAND | TAMPA | CONFEDERATION OF AMERICAN STATES**

A high-rise skyscraper loomed, casting a long shadow from the heart of the cityscape. It was like many American cities in the Heartland of the Confederation. Bustling, impressive, imposing, intimidating, and filled with promise, hope and pride. The classic American flag waved atop many buildings, as corporations and citizens proudly displayed their patriotism for a nation which had granted them security and prosperity.

The skyscraper didn’t, and it stood out from its brethren. It towered above the lesser structures, ending in a point, with the body sheathed in black metal; an ominous reflection of the famous Washington monument, though much larger. A single flag flew atop the point, one which was different from the multitude flapping below.

A flag which bore the stripes of the American flag, though colored gold and white, and a sideways triangle was placed at the left end. Within the triangle were four golden symbols arranged in a diamond; the six-starred American Shield, the Indian wheel, a golden star of China, and the Soviet hammer and sickle.

A flag which was symbol of unity to allies, security to the citizens, and an expression of power to enemies. The flag of the Triumvirate.

Hayden Fox sat with this view to his back, his forearms resting on his largely cleared wooden desk and the office itself illuminated by the sunlight of another bright American day. The national flags of the Triumvirate members were placed in each corner, while personal accolades, titles, and awards were hung along the walls, along with a healthy collection of display firearms, though live ones were within reach under his desk and on his body.

Not especially modest or traditional, but the Director of the Triumvirate Intelligence Service had not achieved such a prestigious position by being _ordinary_. While not as young as he once was, he could compete with the best American snipers, dissect the psychology of people through mere conversation as easily as a Chinese negotiator, and extract information from the unwilling with the skill of a KGB interrogator.

Though his field days were behind him, he still kept his skills in such areas sharp. Time had turned the man with graying hair mild-mannered, if notably imposing to those who did not know who he was. Strong emotion was a distant companion now, one which had become less and less important as time went on. Burning fervor and patriotism had been replaced with pragmatism and contemplation.

The world would likely continue to be stable for at least several centuries. After it was fully absorbed into the Triumvirate…well, then discontent would occur. It was inevitable. One could not outrun Human nature, it could only manipulate, shape, and disrupt it. It was up to men like him to plan, predict, and prevent that inevitable possibility. For without the Triumvirate, the world would fall to chaos and partisan conflicts as it had nearly done half a century ago.

But there needed to be unity; a mindset that was held not just by him, but all within the Intelligence Service. Slowly but surely, he would bring the rest of the intelligence community around; it would take years, but it could be done. But first he had to take care of home base before he could expand.

If his own house could not be prepared, he stood little chance of convincing others.

The woman sitting opposite him was one of the first fruits of this initiative. She sat with a rigid discipline of an indoctrinated officer, fully prepared to wait hours until acknowledged by a superior. Unblemished skin and features which denoted Chinese heritage framed by long locks of brown hair portrayed a young and attractive lady who would typically be held as a model example of a Soviet woman.

Unsurprising that the KGB had gotten their hands on her, especially given her pedigree. Soviets of Chinese heritage were rare; those within the KGB even less so. In the five years since she had been recruited, she had shown herself to be a talented woman, dismantling terrorist cells in Berlin, spearheading increased inter-Triumvirate cooperation, and holding a particularly talent for non-violent interrogation.

She possessed a notable level of restraint and…_empathy_…for a KGB operative.

A prime candidate, all around.

Time to see if she was as promising as he suspected.

“Why are you here?”

She didn’t answer right away, something that had been noted from others who’d interviewed and observed her. She never answered off-the-cuff or without thinking carefully about her answer first. It wasn’t a surprise. Given her family, status, and position, if one didn’t choose their words with some degree of care, one day they might find themselves disappeared.

The reach of the Soviet Union extended far beyond their considerable territory. Not even her family was immune; none of the Party were.

The Triumvirate looked after their own. It was one reason the alliance endured.

“I was approached with an offer,” she finally said, her French accent still prominent, despite spending half a decade in Russia proper as a girl. “I accepted. I’m afraid I don’t know which specific answer you want, sir.”

Fox leaned back in his seat, not breaking eye contact. “I’m interested in why you accepted the job at all. There aren’t many Soviets in the Intelligence Service, let alone those from the KGB. They are often too…” he waved a hand vaguely, fishing for the right word. “_Patriotic_. Many of your colleagues think the Union doesn’t need to listen to the Triumvirate anymore.”

He indicated a small black file on the desk. “We also know you considered applying here right out of school, but didn’t because of a lack of positions and experience. You’ve clearly had an interest in us for a long time.” He leaned forward, fixing her with a stare. “I want to know why.”

The woman held his gaze. “When I was in school…there was an elective I took. ‘Historical Probability.’ Examining how the world would look if events were shifted or changed. It was very interesting; it ranged from if the Axis had developed the Bomb first, or if Pakistan had nuked India, or even if the American Revolution had failed.”

She paused for a moment, focusing on her point. “But what stuck with me, and what I think was the point of the course, was what would have happened if the Triumvirate hadn’t been formed. If the United States and Soviet Union had continued escalating; engaging in a nationalist-driven cold war.” She shook her head. “The models and numbers they showed… Do you know what the probability of a nuclear conflict was? _Eight-four percent_.”

She grimaced, voice growing softer. “Which is to say, sir, that if the Triumvirate hadn’t been formed, there is a very good chance that neither of us would be here.” She gestured to the skyline behind him. “Say what you want about the accomplishments of each nation, but without the Triumvirate, I doubt it would have happened. It’s why it _has _to endure. The Triumvirate provides stability, prosperity, and hope to the world. They ensure the world does not fall, and that is a mission I want to be a part of.”

Fox gave a single nod. Somewhat of an idealistic answer, but clearly one she had thought about. He was especially struck by the fact that she hadn’t mentioned her nation, patriotism, or any of what he would _expect_ from a Soviet, but stuck to a larger Human focus. Mature for one of her age and allegiance, which was exactly what he was looking for.

“You have an unusual perspective,” Fox said, inclining his head. “And you’re smart enough to know that. You’re honest with me, so I’ll return the favor. The Triumvirate is a time bomb. It will break if trends we have observed continue. The Triumvirate could potentially become irrelevant, as the United Nations did long ago. More and more officials are expressing skepticism in the Triumvirate, as who now threatens us? Canada? Britain? Israel and the Ayatollah?”

He snorted, shaking his head. “Such nations, and Africa itself, remain the last uncontrolled bastions. We _cannot_ be stopped. Not now. We _won_. But those in the Triumvirate were always ambitious, but previously that ambition was tempered by pragmatism; the knowledge that _together_ we are stronger than apart, that we will _achieve_ more as allies than enemies.”

He laced his fingers together. “What happens when our leaders lack this pragmatism and are solely ambitious? Not all of the Triumvirate are visionaries who can see _why_ the world survived a nuclear apocalypse. Complacency has bred ambition and sloth, while elevating and fostering those who are starting to see their allies as rivals.”

Fox pursed his lips, his voice taking a conciliatory tone. “It isn’t wholly negative. Many still understand that the Triumvirate can prosper as it is without need for conflict, but opposing voices are beginning to sound. Despite the Pact, the powers of the Triumvirate are fundamentally _different _in governance, freedom, and culture, but they are nonetheless held together by mutual interests. Interests which _will_ fade or be supplemented by vapid patriotism and self-interest if it is not identified, caught – and stopped.”

The woman’s lips twitched, and a flash of disappointment crossed her face at the dire words. “We have run the numbers and probability,” Fox continued slowly. “A century, minimum before severe schisms would emerge. Three centuries maximum. Factors such as continued terrorism, an unexpected holdout from the independent nations, public opinion shifts, and significant advances in space travel mitigate this. Space travel alone could see the lifetime of the Triumvirate increase _dramatically_.”

He softened his tone to not completely shake her idealism. “I’m not saying this to discourage you. As you can see, we have time. But our mission has and will always be to ensure that the supremacy of the Triumvirate is unquestioned. That includes ensuring it survives the worst impulses of our leaders and population. This is not a job that will be easy, clean, or simple. One reason we are so important is because we act in the best interests of _Humans_. Not the Americans. Not the Chinese. Not the Indians. Not the Soviets. _Humans_. And what is in the best interest of Humans? Peace. Stability. _Prosperity._”

He inclined his head. “Understand that here you will not be viewed as loyal by your peers. You will not be trusted by your government. Many of your friends may shun you. Because you devote yourself to something _greater_ than your nation. Because you _believe_ in our mission. You put the Human _above_ your nation. If this is a price you wish to pay and a cause you believe…then you are in the right place.”

She was silent for a few moments; absorbing everything he had said. “I didn’t expect it to be easy or simple, sir. But what you said, I cannot have put it better. I’m aware of what this will mean, and I appreciate you being honest, sir,” she gave a firm nod to him. “But all you’ve shown me is that I’ve made the right decision.”

Fox allowed a smile, a satisfied one, very confident that this woman would be important for the many plans he had established and which were in motion. He stood, and extended a hand which she gripped harder than he would have expected. “Welcome to the Triumvirate Intelligence Service, Elsie Bray.”

***

**OFFICE OF THE GENERAL SECRETARY | MOSCOW | SOVIET UNION**

Within his office of sharp red and gold trappings with prominent Soviet regalia scattered throughout, Clovis Bray leaned back on his chair, a satisfied smile on his face as he whistled a nameless tune on his lips that to some might sound like a bastardized version of the Soviet Anthem. Not necessarily pleasant to the ear, but Clovis didn’t necessarily care at the moment. There was reason for indulgence.

Today was a very good day indeed.

Several televisions played atop stands or hung from the ceiling, screens his predecessor had installed, likely for media observation and international opinion, and now he understood the appeal and pointless sense of control it offered. Control to amplify and silence voices. Petty, but it felt good for no legitimate reason other than selfish pride. Ah well, no one was perfect and now he basked in what was being said.

Today, one story was on the front lines of every media outlet, be they American, Chinese, Indian, or Soviet. The story of the man who had, only hours earlier, been elevated to General Secretary of the Soviet Union in a unanimous vote. The first unanimous vote in a very long time.

A man who was none other than Clovis Bray.

The new General Secretary laughed silently to himself, still on the high of the ceremony. All the ignorant foreign pundits who’d _insisted_ that the chances of a non-Russian Soviet being elevated were now (ironically) red-faced as they reported on the news, while now pretending like it was inevitable this whole time. There was little right now that was more vindicating than shutting up the mouthy foreign pundits, especially the Indians.

_They_ might elect on superficial traits such as a country of origin, skin color, or religion, but in the Soviet Union, it was not that which determined how far you went, but loyalty to the state and devotion to the common man. Principles he could say he possessed for the most part. Of course, the fact that his family controlled the largest state corporation in the Union and he had connections to literally every person of note, including the KGB Chairman and the previous General Secretary, likely helped.

One needed to know _all_ of the Union, not just that of the working class.

_Well done Clovis, you got the job. Now you need to do something with it._

And _that_ was going to be the interesting part. For now, he held the confidence of the Party, and even if he just maintained the status quo, he would die a happy old man and his legacy would be cemented. But he did not intend to simply be another in a line of Secretary Generals. No, he intended to be the greatest since Stalin himself - minus the killings, starvation, and bailout from the United States.

There was room for _improvement_.

Those dark days should not be repeated. This was definitely a goal he felt he could easily reach. These days, the worst threat one would face is the odd terrorist attack, but in the grand scheme of things, that was nothing. It wasn’t though as if anyone important was threatened.

The question remained – what did he have to do?

The answer was fairly straightforward, and in his humble estimation, the Soviet Union was _poised_ to become the de-facto leader of the Triumvirate, and subsequently, the world at large. A title that had long been held by the Americans, but currents tensions had fractured American interest in assisting certain allies – providing an opportunity for an affable and charismatic General Secretary to step in and fill the leadership void.

While Director Fox was likely skeptical of his personal views, Clovis suspected that they agreed on something fundamental – the endurance of the Triumvirate was essential to the continued prosperity of _all_ the Triumvirate. It also happened to serve as an effective way to propel the Union forward.

With the current crop of Triumvirate leaders, it certainly seemed like he was the only one with any long-term vision. At least one which didn’t involve complete and unchecked national supremacy. He had little desire to topple his allies; the world was perfectly large enough for them to exist – hell, a whole _continent_ was ripe for the taking.

That might serve as a good means of getting everyone to calm down. It’d been a while since there’d been a good conquest and assimilation. If he could help the Americans get Canada, fix the terrorist problem the Middle East had, and help divvy up Africa to the rest, it should ease tensions, establish himself as the leader, and ultimately be a good exercise in cooperation and unity.

Though with all this said – it was certain imperative that the Union reached technological and economic parity with the United States and China. Something he was certain he could reach in a decade, especially if ties with both could be deepened. If he could _also_ fix the pesky Israeli and British problems, so much the better.

The British especially. Thorns in their side for too long.

Though admittedly, the Israelis were the greater threat. The Ayatollah wasn’t just sitting around pretending to run a non-existent government. Unsurprising the Israelis had decided to harbor them. Excellent proxies to facilitate their terrorist intentions.

Irritating.

Though not half as irritating as the nationalist sentiments within the Party themselves, particularly in the KGB. He’d have to address them in a way which _wouldn’t_ get him placed under suspicion. As popular as ‘Comrade Clovis’ might be among the working class, it certainly wouldn’t protect him if the Party decided he wasn’t sufficiently loyal.

A delicate game, but one he delighted in playing.

He’d gotten this far; but this was just the halfway point. Once his goals were achieved…then he could relax.

A knock sounded outside the office, and a few moments later the door opened and an old friend entered. “[Luka!]” He stood with a smile, which was returned as the old friends embraced. “[I figured you’d be coming by.]”

“[Certainly, comrade,]” Luka Ulyanin, Chairman of the KGB said with a rough laugh. “[I assume you’ll be keeping me where I belong?]”

“[I don’t think there’s a better place,]” Clovis answered, returning to his seat. “[Well, assuming you can solve the pesky British problem and deliver the Ayatollah’s head by the time I’m old and grey.]”

“[Fortunately, we are making progress on both fronts, General,]” Luka laced his fingers together. He was a small, thin man with a thick accent if speaking English. When first introduced many years ago, Clovis had wondered if he was a purely political pick, but after seeing the work of the Chairman firsthand, he was made of surprisingly tough stuff. “[I’m pleased I can speak to you now without vagueness or subterfuge.]”

“[I’ll get the briefing later,]” Clovis waved a had dismissively. “[I’m sure you have much to tell me. But for now, I want to talk about two things – first, immediate KGB priorities. Tell me what is currently in place.]”

“[Certainly,]” Luka pulled out a thin white folder with a golden hammer and sickle emblazoned on it. “[We have identified many weaknesses in Indian and Chinese security which have subsequently been exploited. Operations are proceeding there well, and we have established a number of connections both are unaware of. There are a number of cultural and econo-]”

“[Right, end those operations,]” Clovis interrupted, lifting a hand. “[If we treat them as a threat, they will inevitably become one. If you _insist _on such a conflict, then restrict it to internal counterintelligence operations. We have more important things to do than spy on the Triumvirate.]”

Luka wrinkled his nose, taking the orders in stride, though not without some pushback. “[They are doing the same to us!]”

“[Then make sure they don’t learn anything,]” Clovis answered blandly, indicating the Triumvirate flag in the corner. “[I would prefer we focus on what _matters_. Here is what I want _done_, Chairman. I want British Intelligence _dismantled_ and that country a proud Soviet nation within five years. I want you to work with the Americans to make sure Canada becomes a new state in that same period. I want operations in Africa quadrupled and the continent softened up for the rest of the Triumvirate to play in by next winter. I want the Ayatollah in chains with his Israeli masters and his Quds Force terrorists dismantled. What I _don’t_ want is for us to get caught up into an unwinnable four-way cold war.]”

“[General, what exactly is your strategy?]” Luka demanded, narrowing his eyes. “[Help those who will inevitably undermine us?]”

“[Think of it as pragmatic diplomacy,]” Clovis suggested, leaning back in his chair. “[The Triumvirate was formed to _prevent_ a Cold War which would have inevitably destroyed the world. The last thing I want is for _another_ one to start. Right now our allies are in a rough place, but I attribute that to not doing something significant since…]” He paused. “[What _was_ the most significant event? The world has been relatively quiet the past couple decades.]”

“[Australia,]” Luka reminded him. “[Although the Assassination of President Wilson would be a more recent, negative event.]”

“[Yes, that was when things started going downhill,]” Clovis recalled, nodding. “[One assassin of Chinese heritage and suddenly America doesn’t trust the Chinese. Go figure. With that kind of racism you’d think they’re Indians.]”

“[Or Chinese,]” Luka added dryly.

Both men chuckled. Not that such issues around skin color didn’t exist, but it was far less prevalent in the Union than the others in the Triumvirate. “[The world needs a reset,]” Clovis continued. “[Something to remind them of what we are, what we do, and why we’re important. A good curb-stomping will make everyone feel better.]”

“[You sound like Fox, only slightly more pragmatic,]” Luke muttered. “[At least there’s none of this “Humanity first” drivel.]”

“[Oh, I’m certain Humanity itself benefits,]” Clovis recognized with a wave. “[However, I don’t believe in mutual exclusivity. I’m firmly focused on our interests – but our interests don’t have to be at the expense of others. I prefer a more _holistic_ approach. Now, I need to know if that’s something you’re going to do, or if I have to find a new KGB Chairman?]”

“[I’m not sold on this,]” Luka admitted, crossing his arms. “[_But_ I will hear your plan that shows how we _clearly_ benefit over the others – and how we ensure they _don’t_ take advantage of our goodwill.]”

“[Fair,]” Clovis leaned forward. “[And that leads into my second point. I will be meeting the other heads of state tomorrow, as you know. I want you to come along and see how I handle them. Trust me, it will be trivial to get them working together again. Along the way we can discuss my…_plan_. I believe you’ll approve.]”

Luka gave an uncertain nod. “[Acceptable. I look forward to it.]”

“[So do I,]” Clovis gave a sly smile. “[I’ve been dreaming of this day for a very long time.]”

***

**CHAMBERS OF THE GRAND AYATOLLAH | TEL AVIV | ISRAEL**

The wind blew gently on the patio, blowing the slightly translucent curtains gently apart. The sun was only now just rising, but already there was a pervasive dry heat that signaled another long hot day. But it was merely another day, one of many he had experienced in his very long lifetime.

Below his small patio which overlooked the various sandblasted stores and shops, with the occasional skyscraper breaking up the monotony, the city was starting to wake up. It was tranquil in a way, seeing so many people live their regular lives, free of the concerns that dominated himself and so many others.

Perhaps that wasn’t fair. By virtue of where they lived, the threat of annihilation hung over them daily. Yet they entrusted their lives to their leaders all the same. The heavy burden of responsibility weighed upon them all as a result.

A melancholy feeling settled upon him as he observed the crowds in silence.

The weight which he had carried for decades was especially heavy this morning. He suspected that the recent news had something to do with it. There was something about the elevation of a young and dangerously charming demagogue to a position of global power that made him privately despair.

It was less that another had been elevated; Clovis or none, they would have been equally dangerous and a threat. It was more the contrast that was portrayed; the implications and symbolism such an elevation signaled. It was a firm handing of the reins to a new era of the Soviet Union.

A legacy that would endure.

_And what will I leave behind?_

God willing one which had planted the seed of revolution.

It seemed so…simple…when he saw the show the nations of the Triumvirate put on. A show where it did not matter who won, only who was best at playing the various political games. Men and women playing with power and lives with no true concept of the consequences of their actions.

There was something profound in the knowledge that your decisions would lead to people dying. Many had died by his command and because of his actions, yet he knew and mourned them all the same. For those in the Triumvirate, such actions were little more than disembodied and impersonal decisions.

In a way, he understood. Why trouble one’s self over something they didn’t need to? Why must they face the consequences of actions when it wasn’t necessary? Their lives would be unaffected, and they would move throughout life leaving unseen trails of blood and bodies behind, effectively invisible to all but the loved ones of those affected.

And yet, as he considered somberly, his hands were certainly not clean. Forgiven he may be, the cost may not be invisible, but he ultimately had little differentiating himself outside of motivation and recognition of what he did. It was one of the paradoxical cruelties of the Triumvirate.

To defeat the Triumvirate would require being as ruthless, methodical, and brutal as they were.

God forgive him for what he allowed to be unleashed on the world.

The fabric rustled and the quiet sound of boots sounded behind him. “[Supreme Leader?]”

The voice was familiar and expected, both firm and reverent. The man motioned his trusted advisor forward and opened his eyes.

The Grand Ayatollah, Founder of the Resistance to the Triumvirate, and Supreme Leader of the Islamic Republic in Exile Hamaza el-Hussein was an old man. His body was physically frail, though still in relatively good health. He wore plainer robes these days and a long white beard fell from his chin. Thin-framed glasses were never far out of reach, though were becoming less and less effective as his vision began fading.

Though even as his physical body began failing him, his mind remained sharp, even as he relied more and more on others to carry out his vision and will. Including the man before him. In contrast, Amjah al-Muhammad was representative of the next generation. Born after Tehran fell, he had grown up in a culture that had been driven from their nation and had swore allegiance to a country that had no capital.

Young, experienced, wearing a desert camouflaged military uniform and a red-tinted beret, he had almost singlehandedly revived the fading Quds Force and shaped it into something which could sustain the revolution indefinitely. Now he commanded one of the most important cells, sat on the High Resistance Council, and was aligned in vision to his own.

He would do great things.

Hamaza knew he would die soon, but Amjah would finish what he had started.

“[What is it?]” He asked in a soft, though firm voice.

“[Another operation successful,]” Amjah bowed his head. “[New Delhi.]”

“[Ah,]” the Ayatollah nodded. “[Casualties?]”

“[In the dozens,]” he answered neutrally. “[The Indians have yet to release an official count.]”

“[Not theirs. Ours.]”

“[Six,]” a pause. “[They walk with God now.]”

“[Mmm,]” there were times he wondered. Radicalization was notably simple for those who had little to lose. The weaponization of his faith in this way was dishonest and damning, there was little denying it. Yet at the same time…there was little choice, and they would at least die believing.

Though their victims were unlikely to be as lucky.

It was a calculus of lives and souls, a solemn responsibility that weighed every day. Every innocent who died was one lost for eternity, yet paradoxically their deaths might enable the salvation of countless more. Perhaps God would have mercy on their souls, ones which had been perverted by the warped liars and snakes who poisoned with the Triumvirate’s silent consent.

“[I’ve talked to Burns,]” Amjah continued, referring to the Commander of the Sterling Cell. “[She thinks Bray being elected is a good thing.]”

“[Is that so?]”

“[In her mind it is,]” Amjah’s face twisted sourly. “[‘Pro-business’, she said. ‘Exploitable’.]”

“[You disagree?]”

“[Clovis is dangerous,]” Amjah stated flatly. “[We’ve been following Kane’s plan. It’s working. Push a little more and the Triumvirate will fracture. Bray threatens that. He’s very much a visionary if Jomar’s right – and in cases like this he is. A visionary is the _last _thing we need.]”

A nod. “[Do you think he will try to remove us?]”

“[All of them have _tried_, he won’t be different,]” Amjah snorted. “[Not right away, but I’m concerned he’ll make a legitimate effort, not some half-baked attempt just to appease the Indians. The rest of them don’t really care about us. Clovis could make them care.]”

“[Then I suppose we should determine how best to react,]” Hamaza stirred, standing slowly with some help from the younger man. “[I will prepare to summon the Council. Have the Quds refrain from activities for the moment. I will want to know how Kane plans to address Clovis.]”

“[Of course, Supreme Leader.]”

***

**CHAMBER OF THE TRIUMVIRATE | GENEVA | SOVIET UNION**

For so many years Clovis had walked the exterior halls of the Chamber of the Triumvirate, but as he was not a head of state or a cleared Triumvirate operative, there were certain areas he could not access. Now though, he was waved through the restricted areas with a smile on his face, basking in the feeling of authority.

Despite being located within the Soviet Union, the Chamber of the Triumvirate had been universally agreed to be neutral ground. In the land formerly known as the independent nation of Switzerland, the symbolism was apparent, and this neutrality was preserved through each member maintaining an equal number of personnel, both soldiers and civilians, while the Triumvirate Intelligence Service kept everything else under control.

Luka at his side along, and with the Red Guard surrounding him, he entered the innermost chamber which thankfully did not disappoint in comparison to the grandeur of the rest of the building. It was so spacious as to almost seem empty, with a tall domed top, with light positioned just so that the center of the tiled chamber was highlighted, with TIS Operatives and other Triumvirate staff observing in the shadows.

In the center were four seats, and the flag of each of the member nation situated behind them and the seal of the Triumvirate etched into the tiled floor. Each chair was slightly different, originally designed by each individual nation. Some were plainer than others. The Indian seat was very ornate and golden, while the Chinese seat resembled a throne more than a simple chair.

The American and Soviet chairs were less impressive, with the Americans simply bringing a black leather chair, and the Soviets were effectively the same, though the design was a bit blockier. Clovis didn’t especially care about showing off too much; it was a chair, not a status symbol, and if a world leader was intimidated or swayed by a _chair_, then there were going to be problems.

“[Good luck,]” Luka told him as he went to one of the seats along the wall, one cloaked in shadow where he would be able to observe and hear, though not intervene. The Red Guard similarly dispersed, though kept a closer perimeter, ever watchful of approaching threats. Black-uniformed TIS agents completed patrols around the room, and above there were snipers in the alcoves. No national military was allowed in here, only guests and the TIS.

Paranoia was certainly justified, and Clovis could attest to a certain comfortable atmosphere knowing he was safe. Of course, one had to get over the fact that a bunch of nameless men and women would be listening…but then again, they were cleared and screened for such a role. As it turned out, he was the last one in, though fortunately it didn’t seem like the others had been waiting long.

“General Secretary,” Jamie Quinn, President of the Confederation of American States, greeted, the first to reach him. “Congratulations on your appointment.”

“Of course, Madam President,” Clovis inclined his head with a smile, bringing her hand to his lips in an old chivalrous greeting. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you properly. I look forward to working together.”

She raised an eyebrow. “We shall see what that entails.”

Clovis wasn’t surprised at the skepticism. Quinn was a President who had, in no uncertain terms, been elected in a wave of anti-Chinese sentiment. She had been especially harsh towards the Empire and the Party in particular as a result, and what had ironically boosted her profile was the fact she was an Asian-American herself.

She clearly felt she had something to prove.

And speaking of the Chinese, Party Leader and President of the Chinese Communist Empire approached. Yun Li, an elder and of one of the most infamous families which held significant power within the Party, he was not _exactly_ as vitriolic as Quinn when it came to relations, but he was definitely focused on Chinese superiority.

“President Li,” Clovis greeted, shaking his hand. “A pleasure to meet you.”

“Allow me to extend the congratulations of the Empire,” Li answered, fairly warm. “We look forward to working together and building a prosperous future for our nations.”

Well, well, the Chinese were full of surprises; at least their rhetoric was initially promising. “So do I,” Clovis agreed. “There is much that needs to be discussed.”

A few niceties later, and the final man approached in formal Indian attire. President Gopal Kusari, an older bald man who was _thankfully_ not a true Hindu fanatic, though was more than capable of firing up a crowd for a lynching now and again. His election had been…well, the Quds Force had found no shortage of recruits afterwards.

He was the worst kind of ruthless; someone who didn’t know how to use terror, pain, and religion _properly._ Or at least not in a way that didn’t leave collateral damage. It was more likely he simply didn’t care whatsoever. The only ones that were _really_ threatened were the outlying territories and as was common knowledge, they weren’t really considered _Indian_. Though more and more Indians were being relocated in a bid to force demographic changes, a recent initiative of the President.

Clovis suspected that it was an excuse to crack down even harder on the “troublesome dissidents” which always just so happened to be religious minorities, as well as reduce India proper from becoming overburdened as they gradually approached one billion people. Not for the first time he wondered if the Triumvirate had made a mistake elevating an India which had been in the grasp of Hindu nationalists.

Well, nothing could be done about it now.

“Welcome, General Secretary,” Gopal greeted with an understandable accent, shaking his hand and placing his free hand on top it. “A pleasure to meet in person.”

“The feeling is mutual, Mr. President,” Clovis answered carefully. “My condolences for the recent attack.”

“Ah, it is appreciated,” Gopal nodded. “The fanatics and cults are only spreading. We will certainly need to contain them.”

“A topic which should certain discuss,” Clovis agreed as they all moved to their seats. “Terrorism affects us all.”

Once all of them were seated, Clovis decided it was prudent to immediately take charge. Adopting a relaxed position, he steepled his fingers. “Let me say that I appreciate the welcome, and will reiterate that I look forward to a long and prosperous relationship with each of you. The Soviet Union stands proudly as a member of the Triumvirate, and while I am the newest here, I see no reason to not start addressing the common problems affecting all of us.”

“Affecting _you_, perhaps,” Quinn looked pointedly at her Chinese counterpart. “I don’t think we can have a ‘prosperous relationship’ until we acknowledge the theft and espionage that the Chinese have conducted against the Confederation.”

“Accusations which I, and the Party, have repeatedly said are unfounded,” Li answered calmly. “You’re not speaking before your rabid base, Madam President. Speak reason and truth among peers.”

“The CIA extracted confessions from sixteen MSS operatives,” Quinn gave a thin smile, fingering her binder. “I am more than willing to provide the evidence to any member of the Triumvirate who wants it.”

“Ah, the CIA, a bastion of truth and honesty,” Li mocked with his own razor-thin smile. “Such _compelling_ evidence. Evidence has _never_ been fabricated by such an upstanding organization.”

“There is a difference between national security and breaking a South American government,” Quinn refuted in a low voice. “And we take national security _seriously, _President Li. We both know what the truth is, and if we want reconciliation, certain parties need to come clean or make certain promises.”

Well, this already wasn’t off to a good start. It was going to be odd to play mediator, but that was what he would have to do. “I can confirm that Chinese espionage has been an issue,” Clovis said, opening his own binder. “There have been multiple influence operations which have been foiled by the KGB.”

“There you go,” Quinn smirked triumphantly. “What did I-“

“I’m not finished, Madam President,” Clovis interrupted, lifting a hand. “We also disrupted American _and_ Indian operations – both of which all of you are very well aware of.” He glanced pointedly at Gopal and Quinn, heaving a dramatic sigh. “I feel something has gone terribly wrong. There was a time where we were true _allies_, who were focused on a singular goal.”

He motioned around him. “Look at what we were able to accomplish! What we _have _accomplished! The world is _ours_ because we worked _together_. Madam President, when our nations were starving you stepped up and helped us. Years later we returned the favor in South America to end the insurrections. President Li, was it not Soviet intelligence, Indian terrorism hunters, and American arms that allowed you to crush the Australians? President Kusari, was it not _us_ who ensured the Pakistani threat was ended once and for all?”

Clovis leaned back in his chair, making eye contact with each of them. “I want all of us to imagine – _imagine_ \- what would have happened if we _hadn’t_ helped each other during those times. I cannot fully speak for the Empire, but the Soviet Union would have starved, India might be a nuclear wasteland, Australia would have become a quagmire, and South America would be an eternal warzone. _That_ is what we’ve been able to overcome, and now look at what we’ve become.”

He snorted, a note of annoyance creeping into his voice. “Spying on each other; accusations of plots; being driven by nationalism, racism, and self-interest. Need I remind you that work remains to be done?” Straightening, he looked around the chairs at each occupant. “Let us acknowledge that _all_ of us are at fault. We’ve turned on each other when we became content in our victory. As I learned after I was appointed, the KGB has been running spying operations in America and China. Operations I’ve put a stop to.”

There was notably little reaction, but all of them were waiting for him to continue. “I want everyone to consider something,” he paused. “Consider you succeed in undermining your designated target and emerge as a clear victor? Or a more likely outcome, you are _both_ diminished. No one becomes stronger except our enemies – and the other members who observe. We gain nothing from infighting, and stand to lose much.”

He lifted a finger. “Allow me to propose a solution – we first agree to cease all spying operations against each other. Counterintelligence should remain, certainly, but let us turn our focus to the world which defies our will.”

There was a brief silence after that. All of them seemed surprised by his impromptu speech – Clovis included – he hadn’t meant to be so…blunt…but it just happened, and he felt it made a positive point. “There is wisdom in this approach,” Li admitted after a few seconds. “Though to ignore the disparaging words the Madam President uses to slander my country is impossible, regardless of espionage actions.”

“Keep your people, your businesses, and your politics far away from America,” Quinn warned scornfully, though her tone was not quite as biting as it had been. “And I won’t bring you up again. We have our own concerns to deal with without being concerned with Chinese influence.”

“That seems reasonable,” Clovis was quick to jump on the opportunity before it turned into a protracted situation. “I think we should turn to a topic which concerns all of us – terrorism.”

“Indeed,” President Kusari nodded. “The criminals and displaced only grow more dangerous.”

Quinn snorted, looking at the Indian president with unabashed skepticism and a lack of sympathy. “How utterly shocking,” she said dryly. “Imagine encouraging your religious fanatics to enforce their faith by any means necessary and finding out that some people _don’t_ like being persecuted. How could anyone have seen this coming?”

Gopal bristled. “I certainly don’t expect you to understand, though we both know where the terrorists come from. Tolerance has been tried and rejected, as violent extremism continues to spread. Heresy and superstition will no longer be tolerated, no matter how negatively the West views it.”

If only it were _just_ the West. As secular states, neither Clovis or Li were particularly enamored by the theocracy that comprised the Indian government. Quinn was blunt, but in this case, she wasn’t wrong. Though not completely right either. “We know the source,” Clovis said diplomatically, lacing his fingers together. “The Ayatollah.”

“And his Israeli masters,” Gopal muttered. “And their British allies no doubt.”

“The Iranians might deny it,” Clovis said smoothly. “But the Quds Force continues in their radicalization missions. The Ayatollah has become more brazen and bold, especially given the recent terrorist attacks in New Delhi.”

“It isn’t just India,” Quinn added, lacing her fingers together. “We suspect there was foreign involvement in several recent mass shootings. If the Quds Force is beginning operations in America, the Ayatollah is treading a dangerous line, regardless of Israeli protection.”

“They should be pressed,” Gopal insisted. “They have effectively declared themselves a terrorist state with their naked endorsement of the Ayatollah.”

“We will get to Israel,” Clovis nodded. “But we can all agree that it’s in all of our interests to address the problem. I fear we have let the situation fester for too long. If they are moving to America, the Union and Empire will not be far behind. I will personally be assigning some of my best KGB operatives to finding these terrorists and executing them.”

He looked to an approving Gopal, before hardening his voice. “At the same time, this cannot be placed solely on the Ayatollah, as he has merely acted on fertile ground. Greater assistance demands expectations. You have a responsibility to limit the damage your policies cause, and _if_ we commit to solving the terrorist problem, your nation needs to do its part. That means a reworking or reversal on the more restrictive religious policies.”

“That will not happen,” Gopal shook his head. “The Parliament will never allow it, let alone the people.”

“There isn’t anything that can be done?” Li inquired. “Could your political prisoners not be extradited elsewhere? All you care is that they do not threaten the Hindu majority, yes?”

Gopal considered. “A potential approach I did not think of. Though extradition would need agreements.”

“In that case, the Confederation would be willing to consider serving as an extradition point,” Quinn proposed. “Unlike you, we have freedom of religion. If you’re so willing to weaken yourself, we will take your outcasts.”

Clovis was thankful that Quinn stepped up so quickly. Much as he sympathized with the persecuted in India…he didn’t really want them in the Soviet Union. Let them believe their fairy tales, but in private and far away. Religious groups were a never-ending source of problems, problems he did not want to deal with, even as Quinn’s warning signaled it might be coming, like it or not.

Thankfully, he didn’t have to worry about that for now thanks to Quinn and America’s useful ‘freedoms’. The thought amused him.

_God bless America_.

“If you can get something like that approved, then I am willing to commit forces to reducing the terrorist threat,” Li said. “Given our proximity, we suffer a disproportionate number of attacks as well, though we suspect there are primarily Australian and Japanese guerillas who are behind many of these particular terrorist cells.”

“We will also provide assistance to both of your nations,” Quinn added. “Conditional, of course.”

“I do not disagree,” Gopal mused. “Though it risks angering the population. They wish to see the religious corruption publicly cleansed.”

“No fancy words,” Li amended sternly. “Speak truth - they wish blood.”

Clovis considered, some pieces forming into a complete whole as a solution presented itself. “Easy enough to solve. The fanatical public do not care about truth or consistency. We have a number of useless prisoners, and I’m sure the Chinese have more, who can be throw to satisfy the crowd’s bloodlust. I doubt they’ll question their origins too much, let alone their sentence. The actual religious minorities you can safely keep contain for extradition. I’m sure you can manage a simple campaign like this, yes?”

“An agreeable strategy,” Gopal admitted, stroking his chin. “Potentially. You are right that questions would not be asked.”

“We can look into providing criminals,” Li added. “We have plenty to spare.”

“Then I will endeavor to begin this process,” Gopal promised. “You have my word.”

There was a short chorus of affirmatives. “Before we get into more…mundane matters,” Clovis said after a few moments, glancing at his notepad. “There are several outstanding issues in the world. Canada, Israel, Britain, and of course, Africa. The sooner we have a coherent _plan_ to solve these problems, the sooner they will be solved.”

“Canada remains resistant,” Quinn informed. “However, we are subverting their economy bit by bit. Within a decade we will have proportional leverage to feasibly collapse the nation.”

“No CIA destabilization?” Li wondered rhetorically.

“I prefer limiting the conspiracy talk,” Quinn explained, crossing her legs. “It was easy enough to explain in South America. Plenty of gangs, warlords, and dissidents to blame the violence on. Canada? Not so easy. We have to be more subtle. We can’t just go around assassinating the government.” She paused. “Well, we _could_, but I prefer not to make it that obvious. We don’t want an Australia.”

“The KGB would be willing to work with you,” Clovis smiled, seizing an opportunity. “Perhaps a change in strategy? Stir up the people, and the government will fall. Trust me, we have plenty of experience. At the very least, our people might provide a fresh perspective.”

“Noted, I will consider it,” Quinn nodded. “And in return, we will…assist with Britain should you request it. While limited now, we maintain a limited relationship to the Crown and Parliament.”

“That would be excellent,” Clovis made a note of that. A welcome development. “As for Israel, I suspect that a coordinated operation would be necessary. They are likely the most disruptive force we face.”

“Debatable. I personally doubt the Israelis are worth the hassle,” Li dismissed. “They have only threats, nothing more. They know they are doomed if they expend their arsenal. They control next to nothing. They are an insect we can live with.”

Both Quinn and Clovis exchanged a look, knowing it wasn’t as simple. Gopal outright looked at him in contempt. “Need I remind you they continue harboring the Ayatollah and his illegal government? That the Mossad and IDF are doubtless training the Quds Force? Israel is the primary reason terrorism has _increased_, Mr. President.”

“With respect, President Li, no,” Clovis disputed more cordially. “First, we _don’t know_ how many nukes Israel has. One we could risk allowing, but they doubtless have more now, and imagine one day if Beijing, Washington, and Delhi suddenly went up in nuclear fire. Could we endure? Yes, but the longer Israel remains unchecked, the greater damage can be done.”

“And as President Kusari pointed out, Israel is directly harboring, training, supporting, and funding terrorists across the Middle East through their useful Iranian proxy,” Quinn added. “It’s not just the Quds Force. It’s not unlikely that they’re behind the Japanese and Australian terror cells as well, and the Pakistani ones who didn’t get picked up by the Quds. Israel is an exporter of terrorism, plain and simple - and they _are_ causing damage despite their claims of deterrence and ‘self-defense’.”

“Or the Ayatollah’s false pleas for peace,” Clovis added.

“I’m uncertain what is the best solution all the same,” Gopal mused. “If we simply invade, we would win, but we face at least one nuclear bomb. I’m not certain it is acceptable.”

“Here’s a better solution,” Li proposed, after a few seconds. “We refrain from human operations for now. We focus purely on satellite imaging. Map the whole country and monitor it. We locate where Israel is storing or making a nuclear weapon, and then we decide what to do next.”

“I’m more concerned that the nukes _aren’t_ being made in Israel,” Clovis said. “The Middle East is far from secure. Worse yet if they’ve shared them with Britain. We know the Mossad and MI6 have communicated several times.” He paused. “However, satellites are a good start. I would endorse it.”

“I disagree with this approach,” Quinn stroked her chin, contemplating. “Too _passive_. We know damn well that the Brits and Canadians are maintaining business ties with the Israelis. It is past time they are dealt with. Israel must be declared a terrorist state until the Islamic Republic in Exile is expelled and turned over to the Triumvirate for crimes against humanity.”

“Ah, I see where you’re going,” Clovis smiled. “A global boycott?”

“Something long overdue,” Quinn continued. “Too many companies have quietly – or so they think –been cultivating the Israeli market through the British and Canadian ones. The Israelis produce very little, but they are avid consumers. We cut off their lifelines, and they starve.”

“I doubt the British will budge,” Li raised an eyebrow. “Stubborn, they are.”

“Indeed,” Clovis agreed.

“It’s worth testing,” Quinn mused. “They need us more than we need them. Canada at least will capitulate. I would prefer not to starve their country, but…well, we cannot abide support for a terrorist state, now can we?”

There was a consensus of nods and slight chuckles. Clovis smiled, quite pleased with how this is going. _See Luka? Playing them like a charm._ It was unlikely to drastically hurt Israel, but done right this _could_ hurt the British and Canadians quite significantly. Of course, it was brilliant because it placed the burden on Israel.

It controlled the narrative quite nicely. The defenders of the Israeli state would find it a bit more problematic knowing they were openly advocating for a terrorist state. Best case scenario the Iranians were expelled and the Israeli situation was once more contained. Worst case…well, some long-time holdouts were weakened.

Win-win.

It was good to be a man of vision, one who had prompted such important discussion, as now they were talking and collaborating as he guided the conversation. Perhaps it wouldn’t last…but for now, it was sufficient. “Now,” he cleared his throat. “Let’s discuss Africa.”

***

**DEAD CELL OUTPOST | REPUBLIC OF INDIAN TERRITORIES**

The cave was chilled and damp, a welcome reprieve from the sweltering desert heat. Electric lights were haphazardly hung from the uneven stony ceiling casting irregular lighting and shadows off the dirty walls, as sand, dirt, and stone covered the floor. It was by no means a place where anyone intended to stay for very long, certainly not to establish a base of operations. But as an outpost that was hidden, overlooked, and easily defendable, it was very appealing.

Isaiah Kane stood before a rag-tag group of people. He was a big man; muscular and capable of easily beating men half his age. Scavenged American body armor covered his body, with the patches of the CIA, KGB, FBI, and many more sewed to his sleeves, some stained with dark red liquid. The start of a beard framed his chin, and light reflected off his bald head. His eyes were hard, telling a story of a man who had seen too much.

The group was mostly comprised of men, but a few women dotted the ranks. Mostly Arabs, unsurprisingly given the location, but there were a smattering of Caucasians, Japanese, and Chinese representation as well. If he was wagering a guess, a majority of the Arabs were Muslim or Jewish, and the rest Christians or atheists. Not necessarily accurate, but it was an assumption based on past experience, though it was admittedly not as accurate as it used to be.

Identifying a person’s beliefs by sight alone was difficult these days, as in the Republic, wearing overt religious attire, jewelry, or items would get you lynched at an absurdly fast rate. It was the same in China and the Union. Only America had relative religious freedom – provided you were fine with the Intelligence Community constantly monitoring your place of worship for signs of dissent. Far easier and safer to remain…_inconspicuous_.

Quite interesting that persecution and the threat of death had been able to do what decades of tension and resentment had not – forged a largely peaceful co-existence of religions in the Middle East. While there were certain hardline sects who _still_ would not work together – largely thanks to the Quds Cell encouraging radicalization wherever they found it - almost all Muslims, Christians, Jews, and Buddhists were all united in the face of a common enemy – the Triumvirate.

A victory, if one ignored the fact that they had lost everything in the process.

He appraised the group closer, a mixture of young and old. Some no doubt had experience with war, others were looking for payback and revenge, and all of them had been sent because they had _something_ that made them worth molding into a soldier of the dead. No fanatics here; the hardliners had a purpose, but remained under the strict supervision of the Quds for disposable operations.

Terrorists. Useful for some roles, but limited in doing anything more than blowing themselves up in the name of whatever god they choose to believe in. Isaiah wished he had that kind of belief sometimes. The reason so many of these people fought was because they firmly believed death would not be the end.

Isaiah personally believed that if there was a god, he would have intervened by this point.

The existence of god ultimately didn’t matter. Their motivation was all he needed. Every single man and woman knew what they were signing up for, and as long as they believed in what they were doing, and were willing to spill the blood of the Triumvirate, that was all that mattered. “I’m curious,” he said after a few moments, finished with his initial appraisal. “How many of you have never been part of something like this before?”

About two-thirds raised their hands. New bloods, likely just finished training and sent over to him. He could work with that; young minds were easier to mold. Isaiah gave a small nod. “Good. I’m going to be blunt with all of you, since you’re part of my cell. That means you were identified as having potential beyond basic suicide bombers. The Dead Cell is elite. When the Triumvirate are kept up at night, it’s _us_ who they fear.”

He pointed to them. “I don’t know your background, and I don’t care. Your skills will soon be apparent and they will be put to good use. I won’t ask for your motivation either, because I’ve heard every possible story. All are valid, all are painful, all drive you. I won’t claim to know or understand your specific motivation, but I suspect there is something we _all_ can understand – loss and hate.”

Isaiah placed a hand over his heart. “I fought the Chinese in Australia. Did it for the full decade before we were scattered. We couldn’t fight the Triumvirate war machine forever, but we did a damn good job trying. But everyone and everything I cared about? Dead or gone. Country, family, friends. I’m not telling you this for sympathy, but because I want you to know that I _understand_ why all of you are here.”

A wry smile graced his weathered face. “The Canadians think diplomacy will work, and the activists in America are delusional enough to think protests and elections matter. That they _change_ things. We all know that is a lie. The Triumvirate will only be overthrown through violence and subterfuge, piece by piece. I doubt I’ll live to see it, but many of you might _if_ we do it the right way.”

Isaiah started pacing. “We operate all around the world. I know most of you probably want to hit the Indians where it hurts specifically. But in the grand scheme of things, the Indians are the most irrelevant. You may not like that, but the Americans and Soviets are the power players. We primarily target them. They are larger, better funded, and better equipped than we are.”

He locked eyes with many of them. “You’re going to be going up against the CIA, FBI, NSA, DIA, and KGB. Do you think you will be able to outwit the American Intelligence Community? The TIS? You better be, because _they_ are our largest threats. We’ve developed some tricks, and we have some allies of our own – but I want to emphasize that the threat is real and mortal. If you screw up, you’re dead. We don’t do suicide missions here. Those are for lesser cells. Those cause temporary damage. We cause _lasting _damage.”

He pointed to a man by the front who looked like he wanted to say something. “Speak up.”

“Yes,” the man cleared his throat. “What…what have you done to make them hurt? We cannot see it. They seem invincible.”

Isaiah smiled. Good. The question was coming up already. Time to blow their minds a bit. “The core strength of the Triumvirate is their unity. To be perfectly clear – we will not be the ones who take down any single member of the Triumvirate. We’re too small, they’re too resilient, and too spread out. But what we _can_ do is push them towards doing the work for us. _We_ assassinated President Wilson. Not an impactful task on its own, but it had the result of souring the Americans towards the Chinese.”

A few of them were starting to get it, judging from several widening eyes and slightly opened mouths. “With our actions we can push the Triumvirate against each other,” he continued. “The terrorists who are breathlessly blowing themselves up? Distractions. What _we_ do is hurt something far more valuable – _trust_. We play many roles; we are professionals who trick the vaunted agencies into thinking the other members of the Triumvirate are spying on them. And they certainly are – we just make it seem like there are a lot more than it really is.”

He made a spinning motion with his fingers. “And the information we collect? Goes to our allies in London and Tel Aviv. You’re going to be trained not just by me, but the best in the Mossad and British intelligence. The behemoth you hate _can _be beaten, but if we wish to topple it, we need to be _smart_. Emotions run high here – justifiably so – but we do not let our fury control us. Revenge is best served cold, after all.”

He motioned to one of his turbaned soldiers at the mouth of the small cave, who departed, and soon returned half-carrying, half-dragging a slim figure with a bag over the head. Isaiah knew who it was, and the reason for the dragging was her ankles were swollen and broken, a standard measure to prevent captives from escaping.

The woman was handed over to him, and Isaiah held the woman up in one hand and took off the bag with the other, revealing a young blonde-haired woman who was completely and utterly terrified. She probably tried to say something, but her lips were too bruised and she had likely been beaten to an inch of her life. Ah, the Soviets did love their young attractive KGB agents. Seductresses who could quite easily charm men out of anything.

Most men. Not all.

Unfortunately, as this one had learned, that didn’t quite work on him, though he was admittedly flattered that he was likely considered attractive enough in his old age to warrant attempts. He let her drop to her knees, tears streaming down her face as he grabbed a handful of hair, pulling her head back.

“Another question for you,” he asked mildly, drawing his knife and holding the tip to her throat. “What should we do to her? KGB, young, first assignment, and probably putting on an act right now.” The last part was unlikely. No one who’d been thoroughly interrogated by the Jackal Cell was putting up an act; the young Soviet was well and truly broken. Still, he smiled. “Remember, they’re not like us. They’re not _Human_. Not really.”

There was some discussion, with a majority agreeing that he should kill her to varying degrees of absurdity, with many spitting and staring hatefully at the woman. But there was one, an older bearded man who simply asked “What does she know and how much is she worth?”

Isaiah smiled and indicated the speaker with his knife. “Exactly. Tempting as it is to kill these people as we find them, most of the time they’re worth more alive than dead. Some of them know things. Some come from wealthy families we can use as leverage. Some are the result of preliminary genetic tests to make super soldiers. The KGB and CIA have these programs now. We can learn a lot from them – but we treat them smartly. We cannot afford to waste resources – and those include captives.”

He paused for effect. “With that said…” he swiftly cut the throat of the woman and threw her to the ground, as her blood spilled out and stained the sand and stone. “She provided all she could. Useless now.” His gaze swept over them, as he emphasized his next words. “The Triumvirate is _not_ invincible. They are composed of people, and be they American, Indian, Chinese, or Soviet, they bleed and _die_ just like the rest of us. If you do not know this already – you will soon.”

The body stopped moving, and Isaiah assumed she was likely dead. _Good riddance._ “When do we start?” One of the women asked, stepping forward.

“Once I’m done here,” he said, wiping the blood off his knife with an old rag. “Of which I am now. Welcome to the Dead Cell.”

The group began talking amongst themselves as Isaiah sheathed his blade, satisfied it maintained the sharp edge. “One more question,” another man asked as the group quieted to heard the question, cocking his head. “What do we call you? They didn’t tell us your name.”

Isaiah grunted. “Names are leverage, information, and on a need-to-know. I don’t give mine out to anyone, and you’d be wise to do the same. Pick a new one, adopt a title, do something creative.” He paused, scratching his beard. “But to answer your question…” He considered which alias to use; he didn’t like using just one. It made it more difficult for the Triumvirate to pinpoint exactly who was running the Dead Cell.

But there was one in particular he liked, and it had been a while since he used it.

_This will do nicely._

“Call me Osiris.”

***

**TRIUMVIRATE LUNAR OUTPOST | THE MOON**

“_And jump!”_

Fang Sov jumped into the air, bringing his rifle up, taking aim - just waiting for the right moment - until he saw the target within the crater, which could only be hit from his point if one jumped straight into the air. _Third time’s the charm._ Both of them had previously taken shots and missed.

Not this time.

The recoil of the rifle sent him off-balance, but this time he was prepared and curled into a backflip before reorienting himself as he floated back to the dusty surface of the Moon. Just before that though, he had seen the target burst into white and gold confetti. He smiled confidently as he landed upright within the designated zone, his Cosmonaut friend waiting expectantly.

“Got it,” the Chinese astronaut stated proudly.

_“I’ll believe it when I see it,”_ Valentin Kozhukhov answered skeptically. “_You looked a little unsteady there.”_

“Uh huh, sure. Only in your mind.”

_“Only one way to find out,”_ Valentin motioned to the crater. _“Let’s go.”_

Both astronauts bounded across the desolate grey landscape. Fang would never get tired of the empowered feeling of wandering the Moon. It made him feel like an American comic book superhero, able to leap tall buildings in a single bound – which many of the astronauts stationed on the Moon regularly did.

Because really, why wouldn’t you?

For reasons that Feng had never really figured out, the Triumvirate had decided that their Lunar station required an abnormally large military presence – far larger than was necessary. The Soviet space military program was the most developed, enough to the point where they had multiple private garrisons. Still, Chinese, American, and Indian astronauts were far from a minority, each having a few garrisons of their own.

Since there was nothing to do, the soldiers had to make their own entertainment. This day it involved setting up targets, and shooting them after jumping into the air.

They finally reached the edge of the crater, and sure enough, the confetti was still floating and fluttering. _“Well then,”_ Valentin grunted. _“Guess I owe you. How many is that now?”_

“Ten,” Feng answered. “I don’t want to say I’ll bankrupt you, but…”

_“Ha ha,”_ Valentin chuckled sarcastically. _“Let’s hope the economy hasn’t gone completely to hell by the time we get back to Earth.”_

“Eh, I doubt it,” both men began the walk back to the base, Feng occasionally jumping a bit higher than was called for. It didn’t matter since they spoke via radio anyway. “You see the results?”

_“New General Secretary? Yeah,”_

“What do you think?” In the distance, Feng saw Soviet Space Marines performing a patrol, a dozen men strong. Huh, he was pretty sure patrols of that size weren’t for another few hours at least.

_“Honestly, I should probably ask you that question,”_ Valentin quipped. “_You follow politics, not me.”_ The Cosmonaut shrugged. _“Can’t say I care much. He fucking runs Bray Incorporated which in turn makes up a quarter of the economy. I’m shocked he wasn’t installed sooner.”_

“Not a fan of the Brays?” Feng had never really asked, but this seemed as good a time as ever.

_“They’re a rich Soviet family with inbuilt connections,”_ Valentin snorted. _“‘Comrade Clovis’. As if he actually cares about the working class. We might as be the Americans or Chinese with how the rich still run everything.” _He glanced to his friend. _“No offense.”_

Feng inwardly winced, since despite their friendship, they both came from _very_ different walks of life. He was obviously a Sov, and his family held considerable power and influence within the Party for years, while Valentin was at best a middle-class only child whose parents worked in the industrial factories (probably owned by Clovis Bray), and who’d worked extremely hard to become a Cosmonaut.

Whereas he’d more or less asked for the position, and within a year he was on the Moon.

Still, he was grateful Valentin was his friend. He provided an important perspective that Feng was admittedly still not sure what to do with. It wasn’t as though he had any significant ambitions or significant standing in his family, let alone the Communist Party. Still, maybe he should reconsider. There were doubtless many Chinese citizens who the Party could use their wealth and power to uplift.

It seemed that the more he thought about it, the more he realized some flaws in the Party’s doctrine. On paper it had promise, but in practice it had gaps. Up here he had access to unrestricted media, as it was a Triumvirate installation, and not Chinese specific, which meant that he could finally have an unfiltered view of the world outside the Empire.

He had learned quickly that there was a reason the Party kept such restrictions in place.

Too easy to get sucked down the rabbit hole asking questions.

Feng shook his head. Ironically, the Moon was probably the safest place he was. The stuff he’d looked up would have seen him taken away by the MSS for reeducation. He still loved his country of course, but his fervor was a bit dimmer than it had been previously. _“You went quiet,”_ Valentin said after a few minutes. _“Sorry. Shouldn’t have made that comment.”_

“No, it’s fine,” Feng put the matter out of his mind, deciding to think about it later. “Don’t worry about it.”

He frowned when he saw Soviet Moon Crawlers driving ahead. That was odd, those were only taken out for exercises, and he definitely didn’t think there’d been any scheduled. Between that and the Soviet patrol, something seemed off. “Hang on,” he motioned to Valentin to stop. Bending his knees slightly, he leapt into the air to get a better look around.

Something was _definitely_ going on.

It wasn’t just the Soviet Space Marines which were out on patrol – _every_ Triumvirate military branch was out in some kind of patrol or guard duty. American Moon Buggies were being fired up as well. The manned turrets around the outpost were online and pointing in a decidedly _non-standard_ direction.

_“Uh,”_ Valentin said slowly, also noting the irregularities as he reached the top of a crater. _“We never turned back on the command broadcast channel, did we?”_

Usually they turned it off, first because it was usually a stream of repeated robotic updates and conversations that Feng felt uncomfortable listening into; second was because _literally nothing happened_ – ever, and third because they had privacy and could talk without anyone listening.

Of course, the _one time_ something was happening, they’d shut it off.

“No,” Feng turned his helmet to rectify the mistake. “I don’t think we did.”

_“I have a bad feeling about this,”_ Valentin muttered, and Feng felt his heartbeat rising as he considered the implications. The military was presumably only here for one reason – in case something was going to attack the Moon – or to be the first line against an extraterrestrial threat. Aliens didn’t exist though, or so it was commonly believed.

A robotic voice sounded on the command broadcast.

“**Extraplanetary object has been detected | Source: Unknown | Signature: Unknown | Size: Unknown | Number of objects: One | Status: Passive | All non-combat personnel are to report to the nearest Lunar Outpost immediately | All combat personnel report to duty stations | All automated defenses are: Online | DEFCON Status: 2 | Please await further instructions | This is not a drill | Repeat |”**

The message repeated over and over, first in English, then Russian, Indian, and Chinese before looping again. The two astronauts broke into runs to get back to their station hastily, and they likely weren’t the only ones. Feng was certainly not religious, but now he fervently prayed to his ancestors that this was all one big mistake and there were no aliens out there.

But deep in his gut, he had a feeling that the alarm was very real, and what the Triumvirate was going to face would change them forever.

***

**OFFICE OF THE GENERAL SECRETARY | MOSCOW | SOVIET UNION**

The phone rang.

“[This is General Secretary Bray.]”

_“[Open the message I just sent you right now.]”_

Clovis frowned, but opened up his email and clicked the message which had no subject, header, or anything aside from several attachments. There were six images. He wasn’t quite sure what to expect, but a call from Luka now wasn’t taken lightly, and his tone alone indicated it was serious.

He clicked and opened them.

They were images of Mars. But it wasn’t just Mars in them.

There was something hovering around the planet, closer than should have been possible without gravity pulling it into the planet itself. Something which had _not_ been there before. It was a white sphere, almost like a small moon, but unlike any moon he had ever seen. Circles and glyphs were etched onto the surface, glowing a bright white, but more troubling than was that the sphere itself was enveloped by a warm _radiance._

Clovis felt the blood drain from his face and almost went light-headed.

_Impossible._

That was only one picture.

There were others.

He clicked through them, and could scarcely believe what he was seeing. The changes were gradual, but the sphere was doing something to the surface of Mars. The odd light was connected somehow, covering parts of the planet, and when it left there was something in its place. Vegetation; water, sometimes carved-out canyons and craters.

“[Is this a joke?]” He demanded, even seeing the serial numbers and markings indicating it came from official Triumvirate satellites and telescopes.

_“[No,]”_ Luka confirmed grimly. _“[I’m afraid it’s very real.]”_

“[What the hell _is_ that?]”

Luka was silent for a few long seconds. _“[I will be honest, General – I have absolutely no idea. But whatever it is, it’s definitely not of this Earth.]”_

“[Could we be facing invasion?]” Clovis frantically tried recalling if there even _were_ contingencies for an alien invasion. He vaguely remembered old reports of some secretive inter-Triumvirate project which would have been a dedicated special forces unit to contain and defeat alien incursions, but the proposal had been summarily rejected.

Aliens didn’t _exist_, after all.

_“[You’re asking the wrong person,]”_ Luka said, and Clovis could imagine the small Russian shaking his head. _“[We don’t know what this thing is, or what it wants. We’ve got the Lunar forces on alert, but frankly, we’re in uncharted territory. The thing could come here and attack, or it could leave.]”_

“[Where did it even come from?]” Clovis demanded. “[We should have had _something_ come up long before it appeared!]”

_“[Far as I know, it literally appeared out of thin air,]”_ Luka answered with a verbal shrug. _“[Trust me, the moment I get more information, I’ll pass it on to you. In the meantime, we might have a global panic on our hands if we don’t handle this right. The mouthy American and Indian press is going to get wind of this soon, and we need to get out ahead of it.]”_

“[I’ll meet with the Council again,]” Clovis was already writing notes down and composing messages. “[I’m summoning the Central Committee as well, and placing our air force on high alert.]”

_“[Sounds good. I’ll let you get started, as I suspect time is of the essence. I’ll ensure the media here at least is bound and gagged. No dissemination without your direct approval.]”_ Luka hung up, and almost in a daze, Clovis placed the phone back, head spinning as he typed faster than he thought possible, made dozens of phone calls, and answered the same questions over and over to disbelieving and astonished men and woman– for once he was not irritated at the repetition or questions. It was almost comforting now.

Images kept coming in as he worked, and he saw the thing continue transforming the surface of Mars bit by bit, glowing with power he instinctively felt frightened of. There was a _wrongness_ to what was happening. He could find no other word to describe it.

He worked in silence, wishing his problems had remained as petty holdout nations and terrorist threats, thinking almost wryly of the very high possibility that if this thing wasn’t friendly, his reign over the Soviet Union would be far shorter than he envisioned.

_A shame,_ he mused as he prepared for a situation that none before had ever faced, _and things were going so well…_

***

TO BE CONTINUED IN **CHAPTER II | REACTION**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A short announcement here. The Editing Team for this story has expanded to Sevoris and Aberron (Read their stuff if you haven't). This chapter was largely written before both came on board, and they'll be helping out for following chapters and working out other internal stuff. Hope you all enjoyed this chapter, lots of interesting things to come. Thanks for reading, as always.


	4. Chapter II | Reaction

**CHAMBER OF THE TRIUMVIRATE | GENEVA | SWITZERLAND**

“You know, I had hoped that we would have regular meetings, beyond the symbolic yearly speeches,” Clovis said idly as they briskly walked down the corridors to the main chamber; corridors which were far busier than they had been during his first visit. “That said, I didn’t expect for all of us to meet again _quite_ this soon. Or under these circumstances.”

President Quinn walked beside him, her face set in stony contemplation while their accompanying staff hung back, giving space for the two leaders to speak, though he could feel the cold stares of the Secret Service agents on his back. “Of all the things that could happen…” she shook her head in disbelief. “Aliens. Of course it had to be aliens.”

Clovis was tempted to make a light-hearted joke about how it could just be a rogue planet or some other less harmful explanation. But the thought died before it reached his tongue, as he was also in little mood for humor. This was…well, it remained to be seen if it was _bad_ or if it was merely _problematic_.

Neither possibility was ideal.

He sighed, rubbing his forehead. “A shame about Ares. It would have been useful here.”

“How?” Quinn snorted, shooting him a skeptical look. “It was always a Soviet vanity project. I could have told you that the project was going to fail. Keeping the Moon supplied and armed is a lot easier than somewhere like…” she flicked a wrist sharply. “_Mars_.”

The ill-fated Ares project by the Triumvirate had been the first – and only – major intra-system colonization attempt on Mars (or any other planet for that matter). Unlike the Moon industrialization, Ares had been a far smaller and less public endeavor due to the high potential for failure. A precaution that had served them well, as while it had shown promise at first, it had ultimately spiraled out of control.

The flagship _Gagarin_ had taken a meteorite right into her propulsion stack just days before landing, and swung past Mars, leaving half of the manned crew and their habitats unable to land. Cargo Lander 4 had caught a computer malfunction into the final descent and smashed into the martian surface - something that _shouldn’t_ have happened, with all the experience the Triumvirate had. And then… the environmental systems collapsed. 

The Triumvirate had landed on Mars in the end, but far from the proud triumph of planting the Triumvirate flag in the red dirt, it instead became a fight for survival.

The Soviet Union had wanted to stay for 500 days… ultimately the crews pulled out after just 90 and crawled home, losing four people to radiation poisoning from a solar storm to add insult to injury. 

It had been a masterly proof of Orion… and an utter failure, vindicating the skepticism of the Chinese and Indians who’d minimally invested in the Soviet-driven initiative. Until they had more experience with unmanned landings, and the Near-Earth Industry project finally spun out a stable long-term life support system, there wouldn’t be another Ares mission. 

Those Orions had been mothballed in orbit and all but forgotten. Nobody had been willing to make another attempt at a manned landing for the decade since, content with launching, and ever so often losing, unmanned probes to the red desert. Clovis couldn’t entirely blame them - the failure hung heavy on shoulders that prided themselves on solving any problem - but it also vexed him. The entire Triumvirate seemed to have forgotten, in one moment of trauma, that failures were part of the job. Playing it safe had never and would never lead to innovation and advancement.

_And because we played it safe, we’re half-blind on the one planet an alien decided to show up to out of nowhere._

“Vanity project or not,” Clovis said, bringing his mind back to the conversation at hand. “We should hope that it gave us something useful, because that’s all we have to go on.”

They entered the Triumvirate Chamber where the seats were arranged in a single line, as a projector screen had been set up, with engineering staff and specialists talking to each other as they readied their presentation. Presidents Gopal and Li were speaking to each other, though stopped once they saw Quinn and Clovis walking in.

“Apologies for keeping you waiting,” he greeted, shaking their hands. “Several last-minute issues to take care of.”

“I suspect you are having an easier time than we are,” Gopal ran a hand over his head. “In all my years, I have never seen such chaos in my nation.”

“Rioters I assume?” Clovis inclined his head. “My sympathies.”

“Worse. Protestors,” Gopal muttered. “Demanding _answers_ and _solutions_. And far too many people claiming it’s the apocalypse and this alien is a god come down to Earth. Utter rubbish, but it has taken root in the minds of too many.”

Clovis kept a straight face, though it wasn’t easy to hide his utter lack of sympathy for the predicament. _Shocking. You radicalize your citizens through your religion and then act surprised when they actually believe it. Idiot._ Maybe Gopal would realize there was a _reason_ that harnessing religious nationalism wasn’t the most reliable way to build a power base.

Of course, he just had the police and military put down any that got out of hand, so he probably wouldn’t learn anything.

One of the main presenters cleared his throat. He wore a white lab coat with the American Flag emblazoned on the shoulder, and the NASA one on the opposite. He was a tall man, though definitely a civilian. Short, groomed black hair covered his head, and thin-rimmed glasses were placed before his eyes.

Jacob Hardy, Director of NASA, and by extension, the main arm of the American space program and astronomical monitoring. Not surprising Quinn had brought him along. “Gentlemen, ladies, we are ready when you are.”

Together, the four made their way to take their seats, though Clovis hesitated. Getting to the presentation was essential, but there needed to be something to set the proper _tone_ as to what they wanted to achieve today. Since no one seemed willing to take charge, it appeared to fall to him.

“If I may have a word first, Director,” he said, lifting a hand.

“Of course, General Secretary,” Director Hardy bowed his head and backed away.

“Thank you,” Clovis looked towards his three colleagues. “I won’t repeat the obvious too much. We are in an unprecedented situation, both for our species and for the Triumvirate. Unless there is a contingency I am unaware of, we are, quite frankly, unprepared. This alien _thing_ could do what nations and terrorists have schemed and failed to do – bring us down.”

He lifted a finger. “However, that will only happen if we _let_ that happen. I must emphasize that no matter what we decide to do based on the information provided today, we _adhere_ to it without question. We _must_ present a firm and united front to the world. This alien is doubtless watching, and if there is division, it will be exploited.”

Clovis allowed a short pause, noting Quinn gave a slight nod of agreement. “I am not necessarily jumping to the worst-case scenario,” he said. “The intentions of this alien may not be hostile. But make no mistake, as we cannot allow _arrogance_ to blind us to the fact that no matter what we are facing, it is doubtless more advanced than we are.”

He indicated the director. “Thank you, Director Hardy, please begin.”

“Thank you, General Secretary,” the Director of NASA took the place of Clovis, who sat down in the empty chair. “Approximately thirty-six hours ago, this entity appeared in orbit above Mars,” the projection came to life and showed the original image Clovis had seen of the sphere hovering above the red planet.

Even having seen it before, it was unsettling.

_Alien._

“We have designated this entity as ENIGMA-1,” Hardy continued, turning to the projector screen with a laser pointer in hand. “Since initial contact, we have received no signals or transmissions from it. We have made multiple communication attempts in all known broadcast forms, and received nothing. It implies that ENIGMA-1 is either unequipped to receive our transmissions or intentionally not responding.”

The projector screen flipped to several more, much higher quality images. “In the later hours we’ve acquired multiple pictures of ENIGMA-1 in more detail. Based on estimated measurements, we believe it is perhaps between one-fourth and one-third the size of the Moon. Mass is unable to be calculated.”

“Any indication of propulsion or engineering?” Quinn asked.

“No, and that’s something very odd,” Hardy admitted, using the laser pointer to highlight several of the pictures. “We have no idea what the external shell is made out of, but there are very clear markings etched into it. We don’t know if this is its language or if they have some practical function. But we see no external engines. We can’t explain it, but it appears to be completely smooth. No external engines, entrances, exits – nothing.”

Gopal frowned. “Then how did it get here?”

“Unknown, Mr. President,” Hardy apologized. “It could be magic for all we know.”

“You’re a scientist,” Gopal snorted. “Speak like one.”

“A figure of speech, but I also say that because we don’t _have_ a plausible, let alone _scientific_ explanation as of now,” Hardy replied calmly. “And considering some of what ENIGMA-1 has done – and in the process of _doing_, it is capable of doing _something_ which defies our scientific understanding. Administrator Qiao will explain.” He stepped back as another man in a Chinese uniform came forward.

Ulysses Qiao was something of an oddity in the Chinese. An immigrant from America, he was ethnically Caucasian, spoke with a Texan accent, but was able to speak fluent Mandarin. Clovis wished he’d reviewed the KGB file on him, since it seemed like there was a story behind a man like that.

Regardless, his talent had led him to eventually become the Administrator of the Chinese National Space Administration, essentially the Chinese equivalent of NASA, although more militarized. “Thank you, Director,” Qiao moved the projector several slides forward. “I am certain that all of you are aware of the Ares One project. It was a failure, but there _were_ some pieces of equipment that still occasionally transmit. Usually useless data, but it has proven invaluable today.”

He gestured to the screen, which was a slide of a bunch of numbers, charts, and data that Clovis frankly had no idea what it was. “This is atmospheric and environmental conditions on Mars on a typical day,” Qiao explained. “If you don’t understand this, it’s fine, all you need to know is that Mars is a very inhospitable place. No oxygen, extremely hot in the day and cold at night, and soil impossible for vegetation to thrive in. This is Mars as of three hours ago.”

A new slide appeared, with different data and charts. “The short version is this,” Qiao turned to them somberly. “The alien is terraforming the planet.”

The Triumvirate leaders looked between each other. “Some elaboration is required,” Clovis said dryly. “_How_ it is doing this?”

“We’re not sure, but we think it has something to do with the substance it is excreting,” Qiao moved to another slide that showed the golden aura and mist surrounding the alien sphere descending on the planet. “We’ve theorized several explanations,” Qiao continued. “Powerful chemicals, advanced nanotech, but none of them line up with the readings we’ve been able to acquire. But according to the data we have, if ENIGMA-1 is allowed to continue terraforming, Mars will be inhabitable in no more than two months.”

“When you say inhabitable…” Li said slowly.

“I mean you could live on it without a helmet, breathe the air, and grow food,” Qiao finished. “It is changing the atmosphere and nature of the planet on a _fundamental _level. Slowly, imperceptibly, but it _is_ happening. Of course, I can’t speak to any other challenges inhabiting the planet would bring – but it would be far more successful than Ares One was.”

“My question now is this,” Clovis said, focusing on the image. “If this alien is deliberately terraforming Mars to make it livable, _why_?”

“I can’t answer that,” Qiao bowed his head. “Not without communicating with it. But it seems intent on ignoring our transmissions. I don’t know what it intends, but for the moment it does not seem hostile.”

“And you say it will be there for at least two months,” Li said.

“Yes, provided the intent _is_ to make Mars inhabitable.” He said. “However, inhabitable is not necessarily _ideal_. If it intends to be thorough, I’d expect at least several months more.”

“What is the possibility that this is a drone or otherwise automated?” Quinn wondered thoughtfully. “This can’t be typical behavior.”

“Truthfully, Madam President, we are dealing with an alien. We have no idea what is or is not typical,” he said in a slightly corrective tone. “That said, we haven’t ruled out the possibility of automation. And the behavior it has exhibited _does_ indicate some kind of automation. But again, we can’t say for sure. For all we know, it isn’t aware that we are here.”

The Triumvirate leaders sat in silence for a few moments in contemplation. Clovis finally leaned forward. “Well then. It appears that the next question is what _we_ will do.”

“Simple,” Gopal said. “We let it be, and hope it goes away. They say it isn’t hostile, and it sounds like an automated drone. That such things exist is…unsettling…but I don’t think we should risk provoking it.”

“That isn’t necessarily the wrong approach,” Li said cautiously, lacing his fingers together as he also looked up at the screen. “Intervention could cause more harm than good. If there is one here, there are doubtless others elsewhere. I would prefer we not entangle ourselves unnecessarily.”

“This thing has been in orbit for thirty-six hours,” Quinn pointed out. “That is nowhere near enough time to determine it’s normal patterns, let alone it’s motivations and objectives. Propose this again in a week and I’d give it some more consideration - and say we wait – what do we do when it _doesn’t_ leave. Or worse, if it comes _here_ next?”

“I’m not saying we _don’t_ prepare,” Gopal defended, glaring at Quinn. “I’m saying we _don’t_ make first contact.”

Clovis internally sighed. Already the topic was moving in a wearily predictable direction. Exactly what he expected Gopal to do, and Li was cautious enough to consider it. Quinn was a bit more ambitious, but she was also going to have to be prodded in a different direction. But was he going to sit there and watch them play it safe?

_Oh no. Definitely not._

The Triumvirate was _not_ going to play it safe this time. Clovis didn’t know what that thing was, but he had a very strong feeling that it wasn’t a problem that was going to suddenly go away. Time to remind these people who they were. “Please. Listen to all of you,” he began, not keeping the scorn out of his voice. “Already admitting defeat when we know only the bare minimum.”

“Pragmatism is not admitting defeat,” Gopal stated.

“Pragmatism or cowardice,” Clovis snorted. “I would like to remind you all of the dangers of taking the _safe_ path. Ares One scared us and we backed off. We made excuses to focus on something else. Instead of taking that experience and _learning_ from it, we shuttered it and pretended it didn’t matter. If we had decided to push forward; if we had _taken_ the risk, then we might be having a very different conversation today.”

He pointed to the screen, keeping his eyes fixed firmly on his Indian counterpart. “I cannot speak for your citizens, but I am certainly not telling mine that we’re just going to _wait this out_. That tells them we _fear_ what this thing can do, we fear we are not _capable_ of defending them. I would much prefer we be _proactive_ than _hide_ on our planet.”

“And what is your solution?” Gopal demanded with as exasperated hand wave. “We send an Ares Two to it and try and talk with it?”

Clovis smiled, and leaned back, allowing himself to relax as he swung one leg over the other. “That is _exactly_ what I am proposing, President Kusari. This problem is not going away. Aliens are real. We know that now. Drone or not, this is now marked in some alien database, and _they will come back_. I’d prefer to know_ now_ if they are ally or enemy. There is _one_ of them now. If we’re afraid of confronting _one _of these aliens, how are we going to handle two, or Marx help us, _three_?”

“And what if it starts attacking us?” Gopal insisted.

“We defend ourselves,” Clovis said simply. “I don’t know what that shell is made out of, but to remind you: between the anti-nuclear defenses, the heavy platforms and the Orion fleet, we have enough beam weapons to defend our assets and enough nuclear systems to crack an asteroid. We _have_ defenses, and we _can_ launch more. I’m not saying it wouldn’t be costly – but I am saying it is worth the risk. Again – _this problem isn’t going away_.”

“He’s right,” Quinn nodded. “I dislike dealing with the unknown or running from it. If we are strong enough to handle it, we should know, and if we can’t…that’s also something we should know. We have to go about this smartly. We can organize a mission to Mars, likely just in time for the terraforming to complete. If it is friendly…we negotiate. If it’s hostile, we destroy it.”

Clovis decided to make it a bit more appealing for the more reluctant Chinese and Indians. “I wouldn’t say that you need to risk everything – I fully accept that this is my idea and I will take the majority of responsibility. But consider what happens if we _succeed_.” He fixed Gopal with a stare, and smile on his face.

“We forge an agreement with an alien which can terraform planets,” he said easily. “An alien which can give us access to technologies and sciences we only have the faintest grasp of. We can bring not just the Solar System under _our_ control, but systems beyond. The secrets of interstellar travel are within our grasp now.”

He leaned back. “Or we destroy this celestial alien. We slay a god from the stars. A being of alien might which should not fall – but it did. We take what it leaves behind, and use it. Who would dare challenge us when the Triumvirate saved the Human race? Who would question our mandate of control?”

Clovis let that sink in for a few seconds, while stroking his chin. “Now, I acknowledge the risk. Perhaps this thing has the power to destroy us, but if that is the case, then a few more years until the next one shows up won’t make a difference. People may die. Our power may be threatened – but I tell you – it _already is_. The moment this alien appeared, the dynamics of the narrative have shifted. If we do nothing, we show our fear to the world, and it will embolden our enemies who would now understand that it is not pragmatism that drives us, but fear.”

He laced his fingers together, one final point to be made. “We cannot become so comfortable with power that we fear to risk it. No power is acquired without risk. We stand to become the true undisputed power of Humanity, and we risk the unknown. We risk our destruction, certainly, but I argue that doing nothing also weakens our influence. This is the choice before us. What will it be?”

Gopal and Li were silent for several moments, a few expressions briefly flashed across their faces. He was fine with waiting, because without them even speaking, he knew what they would say.

_Perhaps this situation can be salvaged after all._

He looked to the image of the alien sphere, with the power radiating off of it.

_Now, all you have to do is not blast us out of the sky._

***

**RESISTANCE COUNCIL CHAMBER | TEL AVIV | ISRAEL**

It was rare for the Resistance Council, composed of each commander of the six major cells, to personally meet in one place. Not necessarily rare from a safety standpoint – all of them could make it without placing themselves in danger – but from an operational and logistical one. It was effectively impossible to coordinate where there wouldn’t be operations disrupted, delayed, or canceled, and for the Resistance, where things could change in minutes, and operations were everything, constant focus was needed.

Virtual communication was too risky since it ultimately relied on Triumvirate infrastructure in some parts of the world, nor was it frankly good enough for holding such talks in real time. It was much harder for the Dead and Wheel cells operating in the caves of Iran or the nuclear wasteland of Pakistan to have quality communication to the Sterling and Jackal cells in more developed nations of Britain and Israel.

Thus, such meetings were only held on the rarest of occasions, for the most serious discussions. Since the foundation of the Resistance, they had only held these meetings two dozen times.

And this was one of those times.

The Grand Ayatollah sat at the head of the table in the enclosed and spartan room which was one small part of the underground command structure Israel had built in the event of nuclear war. There was only a metal table, chairs, and a television on the far end of the room. But they did not need much room to make decisions.

The six commanders sat around the table, three per side. On the far left sat Jilla Pitaft, Commander of the Wheel Cell. Just pushing past sixty, she was one of the oldest members of the Resistance. Formerly the Pakistani Minister of Defense, she had only avoided the nuking of Islamabad due to a mixture of timing and luck. Since then, she had been focused on gathering the remaining Pakistani soldiers, civilians, and striking back against India.

She was a hardened, broken woman who only desired India to burn. The hatred and pain she carried had never faded, and she’d admitted to him that she never wanted it to. He could not truly blame her, and had endorsed her Jihad against the Indian government who had carried out the act – but only the soldiers and administration.

There were lines he would not openly cross, though the nature of their work forced him to look the other way at times.

Sitting next to her was Jomar Liberman, a middle-aged Israeli with graying hair, and without a doubt the coldest man of the Council. Even _Kane_ had some emotional drive to him. The Commander of the Jackal Cell, Liberman was Israel’s direct contribution to the Resistance, and was clinical, emotionless, and thoroughly ruthless to a degree even the Ayatollah was surprised by sometimes.

He often worked closely with the Quds Force, and Hamaza did privately admit that the man’s understanding of religious doctrine, psychology, and radicalization was superb and regularly employed. Still, he was a man to be treated cautiously, even if implicitly he had earned his place and their trust.

And to _his_ left sat one he considered a personal friend. Father Ryan Mills, an elderly Catholic Priest from America who managed the Star Cell, which was likely the largest Human smuggling operation in the world. Though unlike the nefarious implication, this was strictly focused on extracting people living in dangerous nations, and moving them to somewhere more tolerant.

Given the state of Hindu nationalism, Chinese crackdowns on non-conformative religions, and the deep Soviet surveillance of ‘destabilizing’ faiths, such acts were unfortunately needed. America was not a completely safe haven for the persecuted, but it was far better than leaving them somewhere else.

And when America could not suffice, Canada, the United Kingdom and Israel were also waiting. The destination was ultimately not as important as getting people somewhere safe.

Of course, the reason the Resistance supported the largely humanitarian mission was because a not-insignificant portion of the rescued joined the Resistance. Father Ryan played a very dangerous game, using his status as a priest to travel the world and establish the networks needed for these operations, but his work was pure in a way none of them could claim.

Both certainly disagreed on topics, which was inherent given their divergent faiths, but both of them had a unique perspective. Hamaza was grateful to have him as a friend.

On the opposite side of the table was his ever-faithful supporter, Amjah al-Muhammad, Commander of the Quds Force and consequently the Quds Cell. Young, following in the footsteps of his father, and he had now exceeded them in Hamaza’s view. He lacked some of the experience necessary, but he would acquire it soon enough.

Seated next to him was Isaiah Kane, Commander of the Dead Cell. He was one man who Hamaza admittedly didn’t know as much about, though none of the other Commanders knew him intimately either. Isaiah rarely talked about himself, and only made clear his commitment to destroying the Triumvirate. The fact that he was a hardened veteran of the Australian Conquest and later Occupation was explanation enough for his outlook.

He was also probably the most dangerous soldier in the entire Resistance. His kill count during the Conquest ranked in the tens of hundreds. He’d hunted down spies of all nations. He’d outwitted KGB assassins and outshot the militarized American police. He’d slaughtered numerous Chinese police squads and fanatical Indian mobs. Whenever he appeared, the Triumvirate felt pain.

His habit of taking monikers, titles, and names was also a quirk of his. Usually it was based on mythology. Loki, Ra, Daedalus, and now apparently Osiris. He also tended to not respond to anything but those names when addressed. Most of the time people didn’t, since he tended to figure out if someone was talking to him or not.

The final member of the Council was Arya Burns, Commander of the Sterling Cell and Britain’s contribution to the Resistance. A staunch anti-Soviet, having fled as the Netherlands was consumed by a worker’s revolution, she’d found her way to MI6 and was now managing the largest money laundering operation in the world.

When it came down to it, the Sterling Cell was how the Resistance could continue to sustain themselves.

Time to start.

On the television was an image of the alien starship that had captured the attention of the entire planet. “Officially, the Triumvirate has stated that the entity is an alien spacecraft they are attempting to make contact with and are preparing an expedition to meet it,” the Grand Ayatollah began. “This announcement was made in a joint statement, and since then each leader has independently reinforced it.”

The first days it had been a question of what the response would be. The Triumvirate had quickly put an end to the rampant speculation on the end of the second day with the joint statement, and had been making media blitzes each day since, selling the idea that they were going to launch a mission to Mars.

If there was one thing the Triumvirate was good at, it was commanding attention, controlling the narrative - and not saying anything of substance at all. So-called experts, military leaders, and political figures had all been interviewed and at the end many words were spoken, but nothing about the alien ship was actually learned.

“Let’s start with the good news,” Kane said. “They’re focused on this now – not us. We have opportunities.”

“Which we should use,” Liberman added smoothly. “This opening won’t come again. And unlike other situations, they cannot pause what they are doing. Compared to an alien, I believe we will be a lesser priority.”

“Operational freedom in a sense,” Jilla noted. “It’s already chaos in New Delhi. Many opportunities to strike.”

“Or the Triumvirate is going to be on high alert,” Arya countered rhetorically, crossing her arms staring opposite Liberman. “Things are tense around the world. Yeah, they might not be hunting your operatives, but they’re still going to be respond. In fact, it might even be _more_ dangerous.”

“And what do you suggest we _do_?” Liberman asked the Englishwoman neutrally, with a raised eyebrow as he rested his arms on the table. “Nothing? Business as usual?”

“What I want to know is why we’re not talking about _the alien that just showed up?_” She demanded with some exasperation. “Are we just going to pretend that isn’t happening?”

“I’ll care about the alien thing when it shows up here,” Kane stated flatly. “We can’t do anything about it, so why should we care, exactly? And out of curiosity, are we just going to buy this alien starship, which just so happened to appear out of nowhere – literally nowhere? Isn’t it a _little_ convenient? Just the perfect excuse for the Triumvirate to potentially begin the process of ‘uniting humanity’ to counter the alien threat…” he trailed off as Liberman slid a file across the table.

“Read it,” the Mossad operative said in a dry voice. “I don’t blame your skepticism, but for once the Triumvirate isn’t lying. The alien is real. Israeli astrologists have confirmed. I suspect the British have done the same.”

“The Crown received a briefing this morning,” Arya confirmed with a nod. “It’s real. A few of our controlled contractors are working with NASA and got data directly from the satellites. They have no idea what it is, to shorten the story. But it’s real.”

Kane took it in stride. “I stand corrected,” he flipped the packet open. “In that case…” he shook his head in disbelief. “Damn. Aliens.”

“Mrs. Burns is correct that we should centralize our strategy going forward around this alien,” Father Ryan said. “This world will be changed forever with this revelation. It could lead to revolution.”

“Rather optimistic, Father,” Arya said dryly. “I don’t suppose you have some special insight into what this thing is?” She glanced to Hamaza. “Or you for that matter, Ayatollah?”

The Ayatollah gave very careful thought before giving her an answer. Although it wasn’t as if he had a satisfying one to give. The world would doubtless expect the faith of many to be shaken by such a revelation, yet there wasn’t necessarily anything _inherently_ contradictory about alien life.

Although it certainly was a missing blank in theological doctrine. Not just in Islam, but most faiths.

However, alien life was unquestionably not of a godly origin. He was deeply suspicious of the alien ship and what it represented. At best it could be an ally…of sorts. Whatever this alien was, it was untouched by Allah so it could never be fully trusted. Yet he wondered if there was something important around this alien he could not see.

If it moved to Earth, what it did next would determine if it was something to be feared or not.

He knew very well that his belief different from Ryan’s. Yet he answered Arya’s question first. “I can give no explanation of where it came from. But it is not of earthly or heavenly origin. It is not our ally and should not be trusted.”

Ryan laced his fingers together. “I seem to have a more…optimistic attitude than my friend. I cannot say for certain what this being _is_, but I think it is unquestionably a blessing from God, delivered to us at a time where we desperately need it.”

“Please,” Kane snorted, fixing the priest with a hard stare. “No disrespect, Father, but if you’re suggesting that this alien is God’s answer to us _now_, then explain where he was when the Indians were nuking the Pakistanis, when the Chinese were slaughtering and raping the Japanese, and when the Americans were running death squads in South America? Why the hell would God care _now_?”

“I cannot give you what you want to hear,” Ryan said softly. “But all of us are aware of the reality of the situation. We stand opposed to a titan of unthinkable proportions. We chip away at power along the edges of relevance. We all know that it will take a miracle for the Triumvirate to fall.” He looked to the image of the alien. “Perhaps this is our miracle. Are you really going to condemn God for not acting fast enough?”

“No…” Kane pinched the bridge of his nose with a sigh. “But I’m sure going to judge him for it. Fine. If this alien _was_ sent by God – which I doubt – it better have a good reason for not showing up a lot sooner.” He glanced to Hamaza. “For once I agree with the Ayatollah on something religious. This thing is probably on its own and not our friend. I wouldn’t get excited yet.”

“And what are _we_ hoping for?” Jilla asked, looking around the table. “It being friendly? It being an enemy?”

“I wouldn’t mind seeing if this thing can cut down the Triumvirate to size,” Amjah said. “However, that would bring it towards Earth and…” He looked to the Ayatollah and shook his head.

“And what?” Kane saw the younger man exchanging a glance with the Ayatollah. “Wait, this is a religious thing, isn’t it. Go on, I want to hear it.”

“It…depends,” Hamaza said slowly. “This alien…it appears it can touch things. Change them, if the information Mrs. Burns provided is accurate.”

“And that is a problem because…?”

“If it comes to Earth, and touches the holy land of Lebanon,” Amjah answered with pursed lips. “Then it would be a sign of the end of the world. It could be the Beast of the Earth, a herald of the death of the true believers.”

“Right,” Kane sighed. “I don’t know what I expected.”

The man was dismissive, but the Ayatollah wasn’t offended. A man who lacked faith couldn’t understand. For himself though, it was a deep concern. The sphere of alabaster and a golden aura certainly didn’t match the chimera described in the texts, but only if one went by a literal interpretation…something he was no longer as strongly tied to.

This alien had patterns etched into its shell. It seemed capable of some kind of creation or terraforming. The pieces were there, and if they came together, the implications were concerning for the fate of the world. He wasn’t quite ready to make such a declaration, but it was a possibility he couldn’t dismiss out of hand.

He would pray it stayed far from Earth.

“The worst-case scenario is this,” Arya said, brushing some loose strands of hair behind her ear. “The Triumvirate does their little first contact mission. It works, and the alien is friendly. It gives them advanced technology. The result? We are screwed _hard_.”

“Would this alien assist a regime like the Triumvirate?” Ryan wondered with a frown.

“It’s an alien,” Liberman said calmly. “I doubt it holds morality or conscience like you or I do. What is to say it would view the Triumvirate as evil – or even consider that a _bad_ thing. That is the issue – we don’t _know_.”

“We need to get ahead of it,” Kane spoke up, straightening as if an idea had just come to it. “Good thinking Arya.”

“Sorry?” She cocked her head.

“The Triumvirate is going to get there first, and we can’t get to them,” he said, almost to himself. “So we need to hijack it.”

Amjah caught on. “Infiltrate and go along with them when they launch their mission.”

“Exactly,” Kane nodded. “I don’t like the idea of this alien, but letting it talk to the Triumvirate unhindered is a bad idea. If nothing else it should hear the truth from some of us.”

“I like it,” Arya nodded. “I’m sure we can get one or two people on the engineering contracting teams. There’ll be at least a few.”

“And we can doubtless get some people replaced,” Liberman noted. “An infiltration of this first contact mission. Feasible. More impactful than simply attempting to take advantage of their distraction.”

“This will be something we need our best for then,” Kane said. “I’ll go. I have a few people in mind.”

“Alright, but numbers will likely be very small,” Arya tapped a finger to her lips. “A dozen at most. Probably less, if I’m being honest.”

“I’ll make it work,” Kane said, a lipless smile stretching on his face. “In the meantime, I think we can still take advantage of some of the chaos around the world. The crackdowns may push a few more people into our arms.”

“I’m anticipating as much,” Ryan sighed. “The Triumvirate is predictable in their suppression.”

“Then we are in agreement,” Hamaza stated. “We will infiltrate the Triumvirate’s manned mission and appeal to this alien. Then we see what will happen.”

“I think so,” Kane nodded. “Let’s hope it’s willing to listen.”

***

**TRIUMVIRATE INTELLIGENCE COMMAND | TAMPA | CONFEDERATION OF AMERICAN STATES**

Some days, Hayden Fox felt like he was treated like a joke.

Or at least his job was.

An alien had appeared and was in the process of terraforming a planet. One would think that he – as the Director of the most influential intelligence organization in the world – would have a critical role to play or otherwise be heavily involved in determined the appropriate response.

Well, he had been. Initially.

Now, one month later, he was stuck dealing with the idiots and gullible of his species. This was, admittedly, something of an international security concern, and also relevant to his job, but at the same time, it just seemed so pointlessly _trivial_. The name his Chief Organization Overseer had said, and who had _been_ saying for the past half hour brought it home just what he was spending his time doing.

“Could you _repeat_ that?” He asked, thinking – and hoping - he misheard.

“Of course, Director,” Andal Brask said, not bothering to hide his amusement. “The Followers of the Holy Star of Armageddon.”

He hadn’t misheard. _Fuck me_. “Another suicide cult?”

“No, surprisingly enough,” Brask consulted his tablet with a quick glance. “Outside of their utterly edgelord title, this is closer in organization to a doomsday prepper militia than a cult. I suspect the over-the-top name is to make people dismiss them as a joke. Seems to be composed of your wildland folks, ex-military, and survivalists.”

He looked up. “Sir, while I know this isn’t exactly the most important of topics, I’m doing my best to limit myself to things of an actual security importance. A group like this could be trouble if left unchecked.”

“Right,” Fox leaned back, briefly closing his eyes. “What’s their manifesto?”

“Officially, it is ‘the acceptance of knowing that the end of the world is coming, and only by recognizing the Holy Star of Armageddon and following her teachings may we have a chance of survival’,” he explained in a dry tone. “They are led by the ‘Chosen One of Armageddon’. It isn’t entirely devoid of effort and production value. They have a functioning website, some promotional media, though ‘disciples’ need to prove themselves before ‘being accepted’.”

“Wonderful,” Fox sighed. Each of those were definitely signs of paramilitary recruitment. “And since you’re talking about it, it’s big.”

“Bigger than is safe,” Brask nodded. “And curiously enough, they have a preference for fit, isolationist, anti-government types who can handle weapons. Very picky. Can’t imagine why. They have chapters in each major Triumvirate nation. I don’t necessarily think they’re hostile yet, but we should bring in the ‘Chosen One of Armageddon’ to make some things clear.”

“Good idea,” in the wake of the alien appearing, many Humans, as was their nature, had decided that the best way to come to terms with this revelation was to completely make stuff up. Dozens of cults and religions had sprung up overnight. Most had faded or died out quickly (the suicide cults took care of that particular problem rather fast), but a month later, and there’d definitely been some changes to the religious scene.

“Next on the agenda,” Brask began as he paced. “And this is bad news – Scientology has grown eleven percent over the past month.”

“I’m sorry,” Fox, leaned forward, rubbing his eyes, legitimately aghast. “How the hell did _that_ happen?”

“Ah, well,” Brask rubbed his goatee thoughtfully. “You see, if you weren’t aware, Scientology purportedly believes in a being called ‘Xenu’, who is, and I quote ‘the Dictator of the Galactic Confederacy”, who brought billions of aliens to Earth, put them around volcanos, killed them with hydrogen bombs, and the spirits of those alien adhere to humans and are the source of all pain and negative emotions we experience today.”

Fox stared at him for a few long seconds and was tempted to throw the cup of pencils at his desk at him. “_Please_ tell me you made that up.”

“Nope!” Brask smiled darkly. “Now, that is something you’re supposed to learn only when you ‘advance through the ranks’ – or as we say ‘donate money’ – to the church. But it is very much their doctrine. None of them actually believe it – I hope - but you better believe they’re going to milk this for all it’s worth. They used to hide that story because it made them sound like idiots, and now they’re publicly stating it as evidence that they were right.”

The expansion of Scientology was the absolute _last_ thing anyone needed. Technically in America it could operate legally because it was a religion, and since the disastrous Snow White incident, they had stayed clear of interfering in politics, so the Confederation largely ignored it. But in his view, it was among the worst scams that perpetuated throughout the western hemisphere. It was not a religion. It existed solely to make money.

Despicable. Suckers the gullible people may be, but it didn’t make charlatans like Scientology _justified_.

“Now, now,” Brask said in a consoling voice, lifting a hand. “I have an idea.”

“Explain.”

“Since the Scientologists are bragging so much about knowing this ahead of time,” he said with a smile. “I think it would be prudent to bring in the leadership, and ask them why they sat on such ‘_important knowledge’_ without sharing it with the Triumvirate. That would, I believe, be a violation of national and international law.”

_Oh yes, I like where this is going._

Fox smiled as he rapped his fingers on the table thoughtfully. “Why yes, yes it would be. It would also authorize a _thorough_ investigation of the church and anyone who was involved. Wouldn’t it be a _shame_ if we happened to uncover other crimes along the way.”

“Such a shame,” Brask mocked. “And wouldn’t an omission like this technically be considered treason? Which brings the death penalty into consideration?”

Fox tapped his chin thoughtfully. “Why yes, yes it does.”

“It might be harsh,” Brask sighed dramatically before shrugging. “But the law is the law!”

Both men chuckled as Fox made a short note. The entire American Intelligence Community – and most people who had a brain - had wanted to punish the Scientologists for a long time since the Snow White stunt, but there hadn’t been enough reason or motivation for it to justify the outcry that would inevitably follow. Now though, certain measures were more tenable.

If this brought down the Scientologists, he would thank that alien himself.

“In more serious news, our favorite Ayatollah put out a fatwa on the alien,” Brask continued. “I thought you’d want to hear it.”

“Took him long enough,” Fox laced his fingers together, genuinely interested in what the Israeli puppet had to say. “He’s usually quicker to respond, considering his outsized influence.”

“He’s pragmatic,” Brask shrugged. “One reason he’s still alive. He probably had a lot to consider. It’s not really much either. He basically says that the alien is not of earthly or heavenly origin, and that it may be a force for good, yet cannot be trusted until it is observed more.”

“Which translates to, ‘I have no idea’,” Fox grunted. “At least he’s honest.”

“More or less follows the rest of the established religious world,” Brask noted. “A lot less condemnations than we expected overall. A lot of caution. No calls of the apocalypse outside a few extremist Christian sects. It’s a bit odd that the religions are not jumping to conclusions on what it is.”

“Indeed,” Fox considered that for a moment. The reasons were probably more pragmatic than spiritual. The leadership of religion was often more level-headed and smarter than the followers. They knew very well that making provocative statements could cause mobs and protests and cause the state to react, cutting into their numbers, and by extension, their profits.

The western religions had seen how the Hindus had reacted and decided they didn’t want _any_ part of that.

“I have one more item worth mentioning,” Brask interjected, tapping on his tablet. “Not something _as_ pressing from a security standpoint, but something to watch for in the future.”

“Which is what?”

“A new religion, or at least one forming,” Brask explained. “A legitimate one it seems like. Surrounding the alien, obviously. Largely grassroots, online, and apparently decentralized so far. To my knowledge there isn’t a name for it nor is there a priest or preacher equivalent per-se.”

“Worship of the alien I presume?” Fox cocked his head.

“Not necessarily,” Brask corrected, lifting a finger. “There’s some internal debate about that going on. Everyone sees that the alien is changing Mars now. They think that the alien is an agent of that change, yes, but they’re not certain if it’s her or that substance she secretes.”

“Her?”

“Don’t ask me how they decided it,” Brask shrugged. “Probably tied to ‘mother Earth’ and connections like that. The creation and nurturing aspect likely influenced it.”

“Understood,” he nodded, rubbing his chin. “As for the substance – do they mean the light?” There were a few names that were ascribed to the celestial energy or substance surrounding ENIGMA-1; aura, energy, cloud, nebulae, and light were all common names ascribed and largely interchangeable until there was an official designation by the scientists.

“Yes, that,” Brask nodded. “They believe it’s a fundamental force of creation in the galaxy. After all, it is turning a dead rock into something presumably alive. The whole religion is less focused on a ‘god’ per-se, and is more spiritual in practice. As a result it’s drawing interest from a large number of agnostic and even atheist communities.”

“Interesting,” Fox mused. “America-localized or international?”

“International,” Brask confirmed. “Ah, except China. Officially. As far as I know something similar hasn’t manifested in Chinese communities, but I suspect it will spread once the concept gets past the Firewall. It’s primarily American, but with healthy Soviet and some Indian contributions.”

“Well, as long as it stays peaceful, I don’t see it as an issue,” Fox said, leaning back in his chair. “If we substitute Scientology with this…religion, I’ll take that. But keep an eye on it. This is a ripe time for the cult leaders to come in and take over.”

The young man made a note. “And…done.”

“Good,” Fox said. “Anything else?’

“Nothing except the daily ENIGMA-1 update,” he said, handing Fox the latest pictures and charts collected by NASA and CNSA. “In short, everything is still on track for Ares One 2.0.”

“I can’t believe they’re going with that name again,” Fox muttered, taking the update and reading it.

When he’d first been told that the alien was terraforming Mars, he’d been skeptical. Even more skeptical that within months it could be made livable. But the data didn’t lie, and the alien ship was methodical in the terraforming. It seemed to be able to ignore gravity, force, and the fundamental rules to be able to plant itself where it wanted around the planet and do it’s thing.

It was bizarre, yet fascinating to witness. Within one day it could position itself in three dozen places.

It definitely knew what it was doing, and already the surface of Mars looked _changed_. There were more ravines, lighter shades of brown were seen, clouds of _water_ were forming, and ice caps were slowly starting to expand. It was fantastical and surreal, but very much happening.

Fox was optimistic that no matter what happened, this was what needed to happen. With this kind of opportunity in front of them, the Triumvirate would fully unite and claim not just Earth, but the rest of the system for their own.

To think only a short time ago he’d feared the eventual collapse of the Triumvirate.

This, he thought to himself, was a good reminder of how things could change.

And how they could change quickly.

***

**SOVIET SPACE MARINE LUNAR COMMAND | THE MOON**

There were few times when Valentin saw the full Lunar battalion of the Soviet Space Marines on standby, and those had been for purely ceremonial events, such as the yearly message to Earth and that time when several film directors had come to produce documentaries on the base for recruitment back on Earth.

There was nothing quite like Soviet power projection with the utterly massive hangar which was capable of holding the entire battalion of one thousand Space Marines who were organized before an elevated platform where an equally oversized Soviet flag hung vertically from the ceiling, with smaller flags around the room, and the statues of Lenin, Stalin, and other famous Soviet leaders interspersed throughout.

Imposing, but it certainly felt unnecessary for somewhere like the Moon of all places. It wasn’t as though there was a huge civilian population to bask in awe at the result of countless man hours, resources, and people who were thrown together to make something for the glory of the USSR.

Valentin supposed it could be worse. At least _something_ was made.

_And this vanity setpiece is going to do absolutely no good if that alien attacks._

He wasn’t even a Space Marine, just one of the Cosmonauts who was responsible for keeping the external systems maintained. Sure, he shot rifles occasionally with Fang and Liana, though that wasn’t his job, thankfully. But he was Soviet, and thus obligated to attend events like this.

The soldiers and Cosmonauts stood in silence and stillness for a few minutes more before the guest of honor walked onto the elevated platform. Valentin blinked in surprise, grateful for the helmet that obscured his features. He’d expected the battalion officer, and the woman walking out was Evie Calumet – Commander of the Soviet Space Marines.

Something big _was_ happening then.

The mood at the Lunar Base had been tense ever since the alien ship – which had been designated ENIGMA-1 – had appeared. No one had been sure if it was going to attack, observe them, or disappear as quickly as it had come. A full seventy-two hours had passed with full DEFCON 1 status before the alert had been reduced.

But it ultimately seemed like whatever the alien wanted, it wasn’t war. Yet, at least. Instead it had stayed exclusively around Mars, bobbing around the planet and _changing_ it through means no one could really articulate. Valentin wasn’t completely in the loop when it came to the latest reports, but it had something to do with that aura the alien ship was exuding.

It had captured his fascination in a way nothing had for a long time. There was something so mysterious and ethereal about it that he was drawn to wanting to know more about it. Perhaps the novelty of knowing aliens existed, but oddly enough, the more he watched the alien and saw it work, the less and less he was afraid of it.

Over a month later, and it was still there. It definitely didn’t seem to be hostile.

And as far as what the Triumvirate would do – well, that was something to be decided, last he heard. They’d made public their intention to ‘reach this alien and communicate with it’, which he’d interpreted as a manned mission to Mars, but the details were kept under tight wraps. He wondered if those details were being shared today.

“[At ease,]” Commander Calumet said, standing before the podium and grasping the sides of it. She was an older woman, just past her fifties and her sharply cut hair was greying, but she was nonetheless a stern and imposing figure, even from a distance. From what Valentin remembered, she was one of the actual architects of the Space Marines and largely responsible for growing them into what they were today.

An admirable woman. A shame she hadn’t been in the running for General Secretary.

“[As observation continues on ENIGMA-1, we are beginning preparations for the next phase, the most important mission that has even been undertaken by our nation or the Space Marines,]” she began. “[The Triumvirate has authorized a manned mission to Mars to make contact with and assess ENGIMA-1 and determine what, if any, threat it poses to the Triumvirate.]”

So this did have to do with the mission. Interesting. “[This mission has been designated as Ares One,]” she continued. “[While the mission will be primarily to both establish contact and a functional outpost on Mars, there will be a sizable military component in the event of hostilities with the alien. It is unknown how ENGIMA-1 will respond to our direct contact, as it has thus far ignored remote attempts of engagement.]”

Valentin hoped that the military presence of the Space Marines wouldn’t spook the alien. That would be their luck. _‘We come in peace! Please ignore these weapons pointed at you.’_

Hopefully someone took that into consideration.

“[There will be a number of Space Marines and Cosmonauts who will be selected for this intra-Triumvirate mission,]” she continued. “[You will be informed soon if you are selected for this operation. As it is carried out, the Lunar Base is expected to remain on standby until we have made contact with ENIGMA-1. Your work has not gone unnoticed here, and you will be recognized for your tireless dedication to the protection of the Soviet Union and in service of General Secretary Bray.]”

She turned and saluted the flag behind her, and everyone in the hanger followed suit as the Soviet anthem played over the loudspeakers. Valentin liked hearing the anthem, but he did wish there was _one_ speech they could get through where they wouldn’t play it. Once it was finished, she turned back and gave a one-word dismissal and the soldiers filed out.

A shorter speech than he expected, but the Commander was a busy woman, and when it came down to it, that was all they really needed to know.

He took off his helmet in the pressurized breezeway where a number of other soldiers and base personnel were lingering. There was some food set out, which typically followed events like this. Good to see some things didn’t change. He cocked his head when he saw Liana Collens waiting by one of the food table, in full US Space Force armor minus the helmet. “I didn’t expect to see you here,” he said, though he certainly wasn’t disappointed.

The pale-skinned and freckled woman flashed a smile as she ate one of the sandwiches. Liana was one of the most upbeat people he knew and very extroverted compared to his own reserved attitude. Their friendship hadn’t really been expected, but he wasn’t going to complain as they got along surprisingly well. Americans and Soviets didn’t always see eye to eye, but they both had a few things in common; namely their somewhat casual patriotism and willingness to, at least privately, question their leaders.

Well, perhaps ‘lapsed patriotism’ was the wrong word. Both of them believed strongly in the ideals of their country – and also believed that the leadership often failed to live up to it.

_Like putting a wealthy and corrupt businessman in charge of the Party. Real working-class hero, that Clovis Bray._

That appointment still annoyed him. Purely political. At least Americans got to choose between wealthy businessmen, political establishment drones, or American Intelligence-backed candidates. Not much of a choice, but it was better than having no choice at all and having to live with what the Party decided.

Liana lifted a hand with a card between to fingers. “Guess who just got assigned to the Ares One mission?”

“Really?” He gave a wide smile and pulled her into a hug, a bit awkward with the armor, but it worked. “Great news!”

She’d wanted to see the alien up close as much as he did, probably more. But he’d suspected she would be on whatever team the Americans sent along. She was a hardworking and smart woman, and her devoted focus and interest had probably gotten some attention. “Thanks,” she said. “So, you coming along?”

“Don’t know,” he said as they separated. “Just got out of a speech by Commander Calumet. She just shared the mission and said people selected would be notified ‘soon’.”

“Sounds like this is coordinated,” Liana nodded. “We got the President telecommunicating up here to emphasize the ‘importance’ of the mission and all that. Nice of her to say that I guess. I expect the Chinese and Indians are getting their own briefings.”

“Probably,” he wondered if Fang was also getting selected. Between the two of them, Fang had the better chance of getting in since his family was tied so heavily to the Communist Party. In which case it would depend if Fang _wanted_ to go. His friend was a lot more wary of the alien than he was, but there was some curiosity, even if it was tempered. “How long before you found out?”

“Not long at all,” she said with a shrug. “Someone came up to me as I was preparing to come over here.” She cocked her head, looking behind him. “Don’t look now, but there’s a few people going around and giving out letters. Doesn’t look like it’ll be long for you either.”

As they talked for a few minutes, he did see the uniformed Soviets going around the room, handling Space Marines and Cosmonauts small envelopes, saying a few words, and leaving. Looked like they really hadn’t been wasting any time. He tried not to focus on them too much, and have a pleasant chat with his friend.

A deep voice interrupted.

“[Mr. Kozhukhov,]” he turned as a tall uniformed man stood beside him, looking expectant. “[I’m pleased to inform you of your selection for the Ares One mission. Instructions are in this packet,]” he handed Valentin a sealed white envelope and gave him a short salute. “[Your service is appreciated, comrade.]”

“[Thank you, sir,]” he said, returning the salute, then taking the envelope.

He looked back to a smiling Liana. “It looks like I’m going to be coming along.”

“Glad to hear it,” she said with an enthusiastic grin. “So, what do you think will happen?”

“I have no idea,” he admitted with a shaking head. “But…I do have a good feeling about it.”

***

**ORION LAUNCH SITE | ALASKA | CONFEDERATION OF AMERICAN STATES**

It was mild day outside by Alaskan standards, and exactly the kind of temperature Clovis liked. A comfortable coolness where the bite of the cold was dispersed by a bright sun overhead. Not too hot, and not too cold.

_Perfect._

He could think of no better day to witness the launch of Ares One.

They were far away from the launch site of course, given the nature of how Orion engines worked: standing too close to a series of nuclear explosions was a good way to get smashed to a pulp. And he suspected some of the project managers didn‘t want to risk even a little bit of contamination on the high officials.

For all of the Triumvirates heavy lifter rockets with their reusable stages, Orion but them all to shame with its awesome power. Where heavy lifters struggled to put a few hundred tons into low earth orbit, Orion could lift thousands; and where conventional rockets were practically confined to Earth and the moon for manned travel, Orion thought nothing of taking off to other planets.

It had been a power bought in sweat, tears and blood, but thanks to the noble and willing sacrifices of the men and women, they could now travel to the stars. The men of vision at the time were truly admirable.

An era of expansion and glory he wished to return. It had been a true golden age for the Triumvirate.

Hundreds of media figures and companies from all countries were scattered along the expansive viewing platform, which was to say nothing of the thousands of military, state, and administrative officials who were also here to watch the historic takeoff. Massive television screens were set up throughout the venue which would follow the launch as far as possible where many were gathered around. Multiple languages could be heard as the media anchors updated their viewers and officials talked amongst themselves.

For a few hours, for the day, friend and enemy, rich and poor, all were watching and listening.

There was, of course, potential for terrorist activity, but they’d taken extreme precautions to prevent that from happening. There were thousands of soldiers standing guard, intelligence agents combing the crowds and observing any suspicious behavior, and everyone who had been invited was cleared with extensive background checks.

Of the six available launch sites, there were only two in use for Ares One. Those two “pads” were now prominently displayed on multiple large screens: two five kilometer ponds in the tundra flats, connected by extensions to a central canal that lead off into the distance, to where the assembly facilities were located.

The first ship – the true Ares One – reached two hundred meters into the sky, and the second was only just a bit smaller. Both looked like vaguely bullet-shaped superstructures mounted on a dozen massive, multi-segmented cylinders that sprouted from a thick disk that rested on the water’s surface. Ares One proper held most of the personnel and soldiers who were being sent, and the other was primarily a supply ship that held the raw materials they would need to build a sustainable outpost on Mars.

Both were manned to an extent, though the second only had a skeleton crew. The bulk of personnel would be on the first ship. The crew of which had recently filed through; men and women who would soon be famous all over the world as the pioneers of a new era of the Triumvirate.

Clovis liked to imagine the scowling faces of the defiant nations as they watched the Triumvirate claim the mantle of interstellar colonization. Granted, there was the matter of the alien, but given that it had _continued_ to do nothing but continue its terraforming, he was far less afraid of it than he’d been at first.

_Still, don’t get overconfident, Clovis._

This was only the first step. There was going to be at least two months of waiting and hoping the alien didn’t go anywhere. He would be _extremely_ annoyed if the alien finished up and went somewhere else before Ares One arrived. Unless it was completely ignorant, it _had_ to know they existed and what they were trying to do.

Though there was the risk it would leave. Mars now was _technically_ habitable, according to data, and the images showed a planet that was hardly recognizable from the previously dead red rock. There were regular rainstorms on the planet, oceans existed, and there was even some vegetation starting to grow.

_Fascinating._

Even if the alien did leave, there was a contingency. Mars was still going to have an outpost established and the foundations of colonization and industrialization were to be laid. No matter what happened, this would not be a wasted trip. Still, the alien was the wild card they wanted to lock down sooner than later.

He took a deep, satisfied breath. “Magnificent, isn’t it?” He asked the woman beside him.

Zexian Bray, his wife and current Manager of Bray Incorporated stood beside him proudly, one of each of their arms around the other as they observed the triumph of the Triumvirate together. It was unfortunate Ana, Elise, and Clovis Bray II weren’t able to be here, but they were performing important work for the Soviet Union and Triumvirate.

He knew they would be watching where they could.

“Indeed,” she said. “Already you’ve done so much. In two months!”

“Now, I can’t take all the credit,” he chided with some modesty. “Ironically, we have the alien to thank for that. And of course, my colleagues agreeing to once more live up to our legacy. But I’m pleased with what has been accomplished.” He looked to the stars where the ship would soon be heading. “I expect it to be the start of something great.”

“It will be,” she said, hugging him a bit tighter. “You have a habit of causing that.”

He smiled, and they watched as the ship was slowly boarded. Eventually, to the cheers of the crowd, the countdown timer started. It would take several more hours as the pilots ran through the pre-launch checks and the crew took their seats, but it was time that was filled with breathless wonder, speculation, and excitement.

He waved as he saw President Quinn and her husband walk over. The leaders hadn’t crossed paths as much during the event, as they had their own interviews, briefings, and little elements to handle. So it was good to see her make some time. “General Secretary,” Quinn greeted. “Mrs. Bray. A pleasure to see you again.”

“It’s been too long, Madam President,” Zexian answered, shaking her hand. “And good to see you, Markus.”

Markus Quinn, whose previous surname was Rey, inclined his head. He and Quinn had been in one of the longest marriages as far as world leaders went, nearly twenty years. He was a tall man, still fit from his days in the US Army where both of them had met, fallen in love, and eventually married. It truly was, as far as Clovis saw it, a relationship that could only happen in America due to how different both of them were.

Only in America could a wealthy naturalized stateside Asian woman marry a black middle-class immigrant to Latin America, both of them serve in the same military, and one eventually become president. It certainly added a layer of unpredictability to the political scene. Still, Markus was pleasant enough to talk to.

“The feeling is mutual,” he answered Zexian. “I trust the business is doing well?”

“It certainly is,” Zexian confirmed. “We expect steady growth over the next year – assuming no major disruptions that this alien could certainly bring.”

The conversation turned to more idle and personal matters, from business, to traveling, to saying they needed to meet more, all of the usual talk exchanged between long-distance friends. And before they knew it, the timer was almost down. 

“_Now T-minus 30 seconds,” _a voice announced from the speakers._ “Please put on your provided glasses at this time. A reminder that looking at the launch unprotected carries the risk of blindness._”

Clovis, and many of the people around him had put on their glasses a few minutes ago. Little point to risk waiting until the last minute. Still, he made a final adjustment to them, ensuring they were acceptable and completely covered his vision.

_“T-Minus 10. 9. 8. 7. 6. 5. Thrust Sequence Start. 3. 2. 1. Initiate.”_

The water underneath Ares 1 exploded. The spaceship rose into the air on a gale of water that reached 100 meters in height, the propulsion plate visibly flattening against the bulky cylinder springs before they pushed the plate back down. 

For a moment, everybody held their breath, as the ground rumbled beneath their feet, from the man-made earthquake kilometers away.

A newborn sun ripped the water column apart from within. The flash extinguished everything else. 

Ares One rose higher. 

Flash.

And higher. 

With one flash every second, the two Orions rose higher and higher into the alaskan sky, rose over the hillside between the launch sites and the observation station, two white bullets riding fireballs. 

The first shockwave of the nuclear events smashed into the reinforced glass, an almighty **bang! **of two kilotones of nuclear force. Applause broke out._ And so it begins_, Clovis noted idly as he watched the burning light slowly fade into space. It wouldn’t be long before he’d lose the ability to follow it with his eyes, and they’d have to rely on video footage which would follow it for as long as possible. There were also external cameras on the spacecraft which would broadcast back for as long as it could.

Still, this event was still a few more hours yet. Ares One would be well into space.

“That was reassuring,” Quinn said. “I was afraid something was going to go wrong.”

“Well, there’s still time,” he joked. “But it did go quite well.”

“Now we wait,” she said, clasping her hands behind her back as she watched the cleanup crews head to the launch pads. “I suspect we can be productive until Ares One makes it.”

“Certainly,” he said as all of them resumed conversation for the next few hours, idly following the track of the ships before the crowds started filing out, and they figured it was time to follow suit. Clovis gave his wife a quick kiss, and joined Quinn as both began walking towards the exits, both of them finished observing. The screens still displayed footage of the spacecraft, aft faces illuminated by the flashes of light, but there would come a point where that wasn’t that interesting to watch.

The affairs of state needed to be attended to.

He was about to resume talking when he heard some gasps and people rushing to the screens. Both of them frowned, stopped walking, and turned back to look, just in time to see both spacecraft of Ares One be surrounded in the golden light that ENIGMA-1 emanated, and then vanish.

Clovis blinked, unsure he’d actually seen it.

A few seconds looking at the screen confirmed it. The cameras based on the ships themselves had also gone dark.

_“Dyson Space Center has loss of signal with Ares One and Ares Two.”_ The announcer's voice was ice-calm through the speaker. _“We show no debris tracks and telemetry was normal.”_

The ships were _gone_. There wasn’t anything there.

Both he and Quinn exchanged an incredulous look.

“You _had_ to say something,” Quinn muttered as she charged to the nearest NASA official. “Hey! Where did it go?”

“I…I don’t know, Madam President,” he stuttered, looking as he was anxiously waiting for an explanation from his headset. “We don’t know where it is!”

“You better find that out,” she hissed.

“Was that an attack?” Clovis wondered aloud. There were very few – actually _no_ other sources that he could think of outside of the alien where that golden light could materialize out of nowhere.

Minutes passed. _“NASA and NORAD confirm we had no anomalous flash events and there is no debris tracks, no plasma cloud. This was not a bad initiation.” _

Clovis felt something in his throat, his previous good cheer fading as the old fear he had felt when he’d first seen the images reappeared.

This couldn‘t be happening.

If ENIGMA could vanish two Orions away like that… what could it do to the battleships? _What could it do to anything humanity launched? _Missiles, projectiles, rockets, _everything_ they had was now at risk of being rendered _useless._ Worse, there was _nothing _indicating that power stopped at tens of kilotons of spacecraft. Could it vanish ships, carriers? Cities?

The crowds whispered in muted shock. It hit Clovis then that this thing had presumably acted _from Mars._

He took a deep, shuddering breath.

It was 20 minutes since they had lost contact. 

The ring of another phone went under in the environmental noise. A lot of people were talking now, a low rumble of conversation with an undercurrent of panic.

The soldiers nearby fiddled their rifles uncomfortably as officials whispered to each other; waiting for _something, anything_ to explain what was happening, and that everything was under control

“Say that again please?”

It was the tone of voice that made Clovis turn around. For the first time, he noticed the name tag on the right breast: Williams. 

William’s face was ashen-white with shock, and the man seemed about ready to faint. 

“Are you _sure_ that signal is genuine?” 

He listened for a moment, then looked up, making eye contact with Clovis and an expectant Quinn who’d also turned. 

“Houston has an authenticated signal from Ares One.”

The first thing Clovis felt was relief. So it _hadn’t_ destroyed the Orions. The second was disbelief at the news they were _at Mars_. He was about to say _impossible_, before he remembered that he and multiple people had just seen kilotons of spacecraft _vanish_ before their eyes without a trace.

So there was only one question on his mind. “Well? Out with it.”

“It...” Williams took a breath. “It’s incoming over Mars Commsat 1. They are in a stable orbit over Mars… as of 20 minutes ago.”

“Explain,” Clovis demanded, but he knew that there was likely not one forthcoming.

“I can’t explain that, sir,” the man said. “We… have no idea. But the validation keys are verified, I was assured.”

“If I had to guess,” Quinn said slowly, looking back into the sky. “That alien hasn’t been ignoring us like we thought. It wants to meet us. And it wants to meet us _now_.”

***

**CREW ZONE | ARES ONE | SPACE**

The crew zone was one of several dozen throughout Ares One. Stretching as far as he could see, as Isaiah Kane was seated somewhere in the middle, it simply had men and women strapped in rows of six, with a break for the ladder, and then another six. The vertical launch has meant they were lying on their backs for an uncomfortable amount of time, but while some of the less-experienced crew had complained, it wasn’t that bad for him.

In fact, if that was all it had been, he would have been fine.

The seats were relatively cramped, everything was enclosed and there were no windows unfortunately, though through the center aisle there were screens which projected a split-screen view of the external cameras. It had been neat; Kane had thought he might watch what the launch looked like from the outside.

Then it had started launching.

And he realized just how big a mistake he had made.

He had done some difficult, dangerous, and strenuous things in his life. He’d survived off the land in Australia for years. He’d evaded the best and brightest of the Triumvirate. He’d caused millions of dollars in damage across the world. He’d become a wanted international fugitive.

But there was nothing, absolutely _nothing_ that could have prepared him for a flight to space.

_Just sit still, strap in, and there will be a bit of turbulence, and it’ll be over quickly! Easy!_

Wrong!

The shaking, screaming noise, and G-forces that made him feel completely paralyzed were by far the worst thing he had experienced in his entire life. There were supposedly shock absorbers built into the ship but he was _certain_ that was a cruel joke because he felt every single jostle and every pound of force slam against his helpless body.

It was worse than getting shot a few times. At least the bullets had the courtesy to only hurt _one_ part of your body. This was like being surrounded by a group of very angry Australians who proceeded to kick the absolute shit out of him. But Kane felt that even that analogy could not do any justice to the utter agony he was experiencing now.

He couldn’t even throw up with the amount of G-forces pushing into him, so instead he clutched the restraining vest over his chest like a child clinging to his mother while tears ran down his face and sweat soaked his entire body. His eyes were closed and mouth moving in a silent prayer.

_God, please make it stop!_

God, in fact, did not make it stop.

If there was a deity up there, then all he seemed to be doing was making time go by slower.

The woman next to him said something to him, or so he thought; he was so completely _out_ of it that he didn’t know if he could trust his ears to hear. Worst of all though, was the knowledge that it would be _hours_ before the spacecraft was deep enough in space to cut the engines.

_Hours!_

A choked laugh bubbled up, then was quickly suppressed by the forces pounding into him. Slowly, ever so slowly, he adjusted to the flight. It was still agony, but either his body had become numb to the pain and G-forces pressing into him, or his mind had blocked them out. It had turned from unbearable, to slightly tolerable, even if he still wanted to die.

How much time was left? An hour? Two hours? How much could the body reasonably take? It _had_ to be getting close to the end.

_“Crew of Ares One, this is the captain,” _the Captain of Ares One said, something Kane was only _just_ able to make out. There was something _off_ about the tone though, which he chalked up to still being ‘out of it’. _“We are commencing emergency thrust shutdown. Brace for negative G’s.”_

Oh joy, how could it _possibly_ be more discomforting than it was _now_.

“Something’s not right,” the woman from the Indian delegation pressed out. “We’re still in the middle of the launch-”

The ship seemed to run straight into a wall. A car going from 100 to 0 instantly. Falling at terminal velocity and slamming into the ground. All of which to say that it was very, very painful and the perfect end to this ride to hell.

Maybe it was in the middle of the launch. But it was _over_.

“American, here,” he looked over to the woman who held up something he recognized as a sick bag, which he quickly grabbed and vomited _hard_ into. He continued on for longer than he liked to admit, until his stomach was well and truly empty. When he was finished, he took a deep breath, wiped his mouth with an attached cloth, and sealed the bag.

“Sorry,” he breathed as an apology. “That was…”

“Hell?” She supplied.

“Yeah, hell,” he breathed, as she rustled and then handed him a bottle of water. “How did you know?”

She smirked. “You said that word a lot during the flight.”

He winced, his mind returning to normal. “Sorry about that.”

“No issue,” she waved a hand dismissively, and that was when he realized they were weightless, though still kept in their seats by the restraints. “Though I do think you owe me your name.”

“Sure,” he began. “It’s-“

_“Ares One, this is the Captain,”_ the speakers interrupted. Kane scowled and took another swig from the water bottle, hoping there was a good explanation for what was going on. But he noted with interest that the odd tone was _not_ something he’d imagined. _“Please remain in your seats for the time being. We have experienced a major event. I would like to stress that we are not at risk of crashing at this time. We are working to establish contact with Earth and ENIGMA-1 as we speak. We will inform you of new developments as they arise.”_

Both he and the woman exchanged a confused look. Very little of what he’d said made sense; speaking as though they were already in a position to communicate with the alien, and with that whole bit about not crashing…

“Woah!” Someone shouted. “We’re at Mars!”

All eyes turned to the screens, which sure enough, showed the red planet, along with ENGIMA-1 on hovering around it. The entire ship burst into confused chatter, before settling into a muted shock, with whispers and low volume of discussion. For his part, Kane just stared as they floated closer to the planet, likely to enter into an orbit.

He felt numb, though if that was due to the hellish ride, or the knowledge that they had completed a two-month trip in _an instant_. It had to be the alien which had brought them here. There could be no other explanation. If it had done so…then it was incomprehensibly _powerful_ in ways he was finding it difficult to imagine.

Presumably, it had teleported both Ares One and Two, intact, to a location hundreds of millions of kilometers away. Which also meant that it _was_ paying attention to Earth, and had the power to attack it at any time.

_So, if it can move a ship weighing kilotons here, then couldn’t it move any battleship, missile, or war platform somewhere else?_

The shock gradually gave way to a growing giddiness as he realized that the alien had probably made everyone in the Triumvirate utterly _terrified_. This alien with one single action had shown it could render their entire ornate, bloated, and terrifying defense systems useless.

A smile grew on his face as his heartrate gradually slowed down. He didn’t know how the alien had done what it did. He didn’t know why. But he had a good feeling that the alien _was_ keeping track of them. It wasn’t being idle. It was watching, and that it hadn’t blasted them out of the sky _did_ mean it wanted to talk.

Now it was up to him and those who’d come along to find a way to convince it to help them.

For the first time, perhaps in a very long time, he saw a path to the fall of the Triumvirate. Not one of dozens of pieces falling into place, and coincidences happening, or plans which could go wrong in a hundred different ways, but a true, viable path. One where this alien turned it’s almighty power against the tyrants.

_Don’t get ahead of yourself. It’s willing to talk. It means it hasn’t yet decided the Triumvirate is irredeemable._

The stakes were raised ever higher. If he failed to reach the alien, if the Triumvirate was somehow able to convince it to ally with them, then not only would the Triumvirate conquer the rest of the world and reign forever, it would be the death warrant for the Resistance and anyone who dared challenge them.

He closed his eyes and rested his head back.

“Are you alright?” The woman asked, looking at him with some concern.

“Yeah,” he said, his voice surprisingly calm; not reflecting his riling emotions. “Just…a lot to take in.”

“I hear you,” she said, looking back to the screen and the image of the alien. “Looks like my job is going to start a lot faster than I thought.”

“And what is that?”

“Linguistics,” she angled a hand towards him. “Dr. Milya Mihaylova. Chief Linguist to the Triumvirate.”

He took it, and gave his assigned name. “Jacob Milton. CIA.”

“Nice to meet you, Jacob,” she said. “It looks like we’re going to have an interesting journey ahead of us.”

***

TO BE CONTINUED IN **CHAPTER III | MARS**


	5. Chapter III | Mars

**ACT I | THE TYRANT’S MALEVOLENCE**

***

**MAIN HOLD | ARES ONE**

It was a little surreal to think of what was actually happening.

They were getting ready to land on Mars.

_Mars_.

It wasn’t an immediate landing, of course, and in fact the crew hadn’t been doing much over the past few days outside of waiting, discussing, and theorizing over what was going to happen next. Many a conversation was held between hovering groups of people, all with their own theory and fear. The conversations were an odd mixture of optimism, excitement, and concern. They were a part of history now, going to places no Human had ever went before, and doing things no Human had done.

But there was the alien. ENIGMA-1.

It made Valentin feel vulnerable. It made all of them feel vulnerable.

It had somehow teleported both ships to Mars in a matter of seconds. Given from the brief discussions he’d had with some of the physicists and scientists aboard, as well as what he’d heard just listening, that was not something that should be possible. ‘_Magic’_ was a term thrown around, but only half-jokingly as none of the rank and file – and indeed even some scientists, no matter how much they would deny it - knew what to think of the feats they’d witnessed.

For his part, Valentin was thinking they were dealing with an alien that was somehow even more advanced than he’d thought. In theory, teleportation shouldn’t be impossible with sufficiently advanced technology, but this belief was admittedly shaken by the fact that the alien didn’t seem to have used _any_ actual technology. He’d watched the feeds several times, and it genuinely looked as if the alien had just _willed_ them to the Martian orbit using whatever that golden aura was.

But he was just a Cosmonaut. These kind of questions were for people _way_ above his pay grade to answer.

At least contact had been established with Earth, who’d told them to initiate the standard protocols. The pilots were taking their time with the next steps. They’d planned for a journey lasting months, so they fortunately weren’t going to run out of supplies anytime soon. The first thing they’d done was attempt communications with ENIGMA-1.

Nothing.

Whatever the alien wanted from them, it seemed to want them to go down to the surface. At least the pilots had overflown the spherical alien, and taken thousands of high-quality pictures that the linguists were poring over, and no doubt hundreds more were examining every detail back on Earth.

He’d taken a good look at them himself, and the patterns in the shell did strike him as ritualistic, though as he and Liana had pored over them, neither of them had the faintest clue what they could mean, unqualified as they were. Maybe they didn’t mean anything at all, but he was doubtful of that. This alien didn’t strike him as the type to do things without reason.

More relevant to him were the pictures taken of the planet itself, specifically for determining landing zones. Commander Calumet was adamant that the landing zones be close enough to the alien that they could feasibly arrive in several hours, but far enough away so there would be some distance. The pictures that had been captured were truly stunning.

Dead red sand and stone had been replaced with orange-yellow vegetation, flowing rivers, and oasis’. Thunderstorms were commonly observed, and dust tornados seemed to be a regular occurrence. Ravines and valleys now broke up the landscape, as even odd Martian trees now grew in fertile soil. At the moment, the Commander was deliberating between a landing zone near one of the oasis’, which was in a shallow canyon, or near the top of a plateau which overlooked an open area that led to where the alien was hovering.

Knowing what he did of the Commander, Valentin believed that the initial crew would land in the oasis, and when that base was established, the plateau would come next – and any other additional zones identified. That was the logical path to take, but deployment wouldn’t be for hours at least.

He hoped it was sooner than later. Ares One had just launched a first lander towards the planet, along with some weather balloons to gather first atmosphere data. Data that would confirm what the spectrometers and radars aboard Ares One suggested. _Suggested_ \- that was the word the scientists used - that indicated this Mars had a breathable, earth-like atmosphere up to an altitude of 12 kilometers above the highland terrain.

Remote sensing had become suspect overnight in the face of what ENIGMA did. The weather balloons would also be responsible for mapping the weather systems of new Mars. Nobody wanted to authorize a manned landing in the face of bad weather with the actual power to smash a lander into the ground.

But the probes wouldn’t begin operation until yet more hours had passed. Command would probably want to wait days before giving the all clear. Valentin had heard that the Triumvirate leaders were in constant contact with Ares Command, which was going to take up time giving briefings when it could have gone to preparing for the mission.

Normally, that wouldn’t have been a big deal. Valentin was perfectly capable of waiting, and this was a serious and potentially lethal matter. But over the past day, there had been…odd things happening around the ship. Stories the soldiers and crew were telling in low tones, due to the unbelievability and skepticism surrounding it.

One such story he was listening Liana recount now. “I knew I’d never seen him before,” she was saying, floating idly in the ship like most of them did now. For his part, Valentin held one of the straps along the wall. He didn’t like free-floating without some kind of momentum or anchor. “He was wearing a uniform, but there was stuff missing.”

Valentin raised an eyebrow. “Stuff as in…?” He waved a hand in a circular motion.

“Well, this flag?” She tapped her patch on her shoulder. “Wrong way. The rank badge was also something that didn’t exist. Looked similar, wasn’t real. The big thing through was the stripe down the leg was just the wrong shade. Way too many red flags to ignore.”

He nodded. “So what did you do?”

“Well, he was going towards the lower decks,” Liana said. “I called out to him. He ignored me, and kept going. What’s weirder? He wasn’t actually pulling himself forward through the halls. He made the motions, but his arms weren’t touching anything. It was like a hologram, or something.”

Valentin frowned.

Liana crossed her arms. “You think I’m making it up.”

“It is a bit unbelievable,” he admitted. “But finish.”

“Yeah, so I follow him into spine-way 2, turn the corner of the hatch, and he’s _gone_,” she waved a hand. “Vanished. _Poof_. I thought he’d just somehow pulled ahead, but another mechanic was coming up, and she said she hadn’t run into anyone. In a hallway with no pressure hatches. No rooms or places to hide.”

“So what you’re saying,” Valentin said slowly. “Is that you saw a ghost.”

“I hate that you phrase it like that,” she scowled. “All I know is that I saw someone who looked suspicious, they tried getting away, I followed, and they vanished into thin air. But I’m _not_ seeing things, I swear it.”

“I might dispute that,” Valentin began dryly, lifting a hand to forestall her rebuttal. “_However_, you aren’t the only one seeing ghosts either. I’ve heard some similar things from a couple other people. Others are hearing weird noises and electronic sounds. Service team 6 reported they saw hovering machines in the pressurized segments of the propulsion stack that vanished before their eyes.”

He gave a shrug. “I don’t know what it is, but you’re not crazy.”

“Yeah, I thought as much when I reported it, and the officer said ‘Huh, another one?’” She pursed her lips. “I don’t like it.”

“Neither do I,” Valentin hoped that he wouldn’t start seeing whatever these ghosts were. “I wonder if it’s the alien.”

“What else could it be?” Liana wondered.

“I don’t know?” Valentin reached with a free hand and massaged his shoulder. “But first we see the alien do teleportation, and now make people see ghosts? That doesn’t add up.”

“Maybe the aliens are shapeshifters?” Liana put forward, in a half-serious voice. “I mean, maybe there’s a bunch of aliens living in that ship, and they can all teleport. Do you have a better theory?”

“It doesn’t make sense,” Valentin muttered, largely ignoring the question. “Why doesn’t it just talk to us?”

“Maybe it’s suspicious?” Liana offered.

“We’re suspicious too, and we reached out,” he pointed out. “And you don’t bring a potentially suspicious ship directly to you.”

“Why not?” Liana asked idly. “I mean, we’re basically cut off from the Triumvirate. It could literally do anything it wants, and what the hell could we do stuck in here? It makes sense to me. But I really do wish it would decide what it wants and stops fucking with us.”

“Well, in any event, let’s hope it doesn’t do anything for another day or two,” Valentin glanced towards one of the many screens which projected an image of Mars and ENIGMA-1. “And I don’t think it wants to hurt us. If it did, we’d probably be dead.”

“Maybe it just wants to scare us,” Liana idly flipped in the air. “Sadistic aliens.”

“Who knows?” Valentin gave a wry smile. “Maybe this is how it says hello.”

***

**THE PENTAGON | WASHINGTON D.C. | CONFEDERATION OF AMERICAN STATES**

While the Pentagon was not a location of neutral ground, it had generally been agreed upon by Triumvirate leadership that if there were attacks from ENIGMA-1, it was safer to hold the briefings in one of the most fortified places in the world, with a strong military response at the ready. While each had their own respective military command centers, objectively the Pentagon remained the unquestionably behemoth of American military power and by far the single largest concentration of military command, strategy, and power in the world.

A safe place.

At least that was what they all told themselves.

Clovis suspected the majority of them had gone along with meeting here to bring some sense of control back to them, because he knew very well that if that alien decided to legitimately attack, no single building was going to really protect them. Perhaps he was overestimating what this alien could do.

_Then again, it just teleported two massive spacecraft to Mars…_

It was difficult to remain confident in military superiority when things like that just _happened_. Gopal wasn’t in this meeting, nor was Li, since both of them were back in their respective countries to placate the understandably concerned military staff, and in the case of Gopal, the civilians who’d seen on video what had happened as well.

For once, he’d thought sourly, the Chinese censors had the right idea. A delay on the livestream would have made a narrative _so_ much easier to maintain. Easy enough to claim technical difficulties. A lot harder to control that when you do it live. That Ares One hadn’t been spontaneously vaporized was good, but it left _way_ too many questions they couldn’t answer.

Oh well, lessons learned for next time.

Assuming there _was_ a next time.

Indian and Chinese surrogates were still in attendance, but only he and Quinn were the heads of state in the room as NASA and the US Space Force, with a few ranking representatives of the other Triumvirate space programs also in the room, prepared to give their update. The mood in the room was grim, with a dozen high-ranking military officials of the various American military branches, and a smattering of space program scientists and specialists sitting behind Clovis and Quinn.

“Ares One remains in orbit over Mars,” Dr. Hardy updated, indicating a projector displaying a soundless video of the spacecraft in orbit. “Crew reports indicate that there have been no difficulties, and they have successfully conducted dozens of scans, captured images, and launched all the unmanned probes.”

“I’m aware of all that,” Clovis said, making a pointed, if slightly impatient nod. He’d been getting hourly updates for the past few days, and was well aware of what was happening as far as the important plays were concerned. “Tell me what all of it _means_.”

“We’ve been given the raw data,” Quinn added. “I presume you haven’t just been staring at it and done nothing, yes?”

“No, Madam President, of course not,” Hardy cleared his throat. “I’ll let this be broken down into several parts. The first – the current procedure for Mars. The second for what we know – or think we know about ENIGMA-1, and finally what we may be able to do about it.”

“Excellent,” Clovis settled into his chair, propping his chin on a fist. “Then get started.”

“We’ve finished analysis on the first batch of probe data, including soil samples,” Hardy said, as ground-perspective images of the new Mars scrolled by on-screen. “Scans taken confirm a breathable atmosphere, and soil composition is remarkably rich. No perchlorates to speak of anymore.”

Clovis disliked it when scientists threw around words that no normal person had any off-hand knowledge of. “And a perchlorate is…?”

“Apologies, General Secretary,” Hardy clarified. “Perchlorates are a toxic chemical which had been detected in Martian soil through previous expeditions. In our…original mission to Mars, it proved to be a major obstacle towards colonization since nothing could be grown in untreated soil. Now that it is gone…well, you could just seed your crops straight into the ground. Even the required bacteria may already be present in the soil.”

Clovis nodded. “Thank you. Continue.”

“Of course,” Hardy returned to the main topic. “In addition to the new soil data, we can confirm that the atmosphere has been significantly affected.”

“And that is worth noting because…?”

“A simple data point, but something we are keeping an eye on,” he answered. “Our landing craft were not, strictly speaking, designed for landing and launching in this specific atmosphere, but there isn’t a reason to worry. The landers aboard Ares One were designed with greater margins in heat shielding and propellant tankage based on hypothetical models, and for future landings we can design a fully customized and thoroughly vehicle based on the data our mission is now gathering.

“How soon would that be finished?”

“Several months at minimum to analyze the data from the Ares One mission thoroughly, design and evaluate prototypes, then push out a production airframe. I will stress this is not an issue – but it _is_ something we are keeping an eye on. With how much ENIGMA-1 is already affecting the planet, we cannot fully rule out sudden and significant changes.” 

“Noted,” Clovis nodded. “Continue.”

“Of course,” the projected images changed to two pictures of the surface of Mars. “Commander Calumet has determined that the first landing teams will arrive at this plateau. From there a forward base will be established in relatively close distance to ENIGMA-1’s current position – over which it has stayed for the past seventy-two hours. Commander Calumet judged it as capable of being defensible and militarized in a reasonable amount of time. Following a successful deployment, a larger forward base will be established at the second landing zone, near an identified oasis.”

“When is this scheduled to happen?” Quinn demanded, crossing her legs.

“When the word is given,” Hardy said. “Assuming clearance is granted upon the conclusion of this briefing, they will require a full day to prepare, and eight to sixteen hours between launch and landing.”

“Is it safe on the surface?” Quinn asked. “Has ENIGMA-1 shown any signs of aggression or hostility?”

“No, it has not,” Hardy clarified. “With that said, it truthfully means nothing. The motivations and goals of ENIGMA-1 remain a mystery still, as it continually ignores all attempts at communication, which is conducted hourly. We don’t know why, but outside of some dust tornadoes and thunderstorms, the surface is safe.”

“It has to happen sometime,” Clovis said, exchanging a glance with Quinn. “Clear them, unless there are any professional risks you want to bring up?”

“None factually sound, General Secretary,” Hardy said. “I do not trust the intentions of ENIGMA-1, but until it directly acts against us, I cannot let a ‘bad feeling’ stand in the way of the facts, and the facts indicate that there is no sound technical reason to delay the landing.”

“Factually sound,” Clovis noted. “And you have some _unfactually_ sound risks?”

“We’ll get to that,” Hardy said with a frown. “But it has no impact on the landing, regardless. Madam President, do we also have your approval?”

“You do, Director. I will prepare an address for when the mission is carried out.”

The Indian and Chinese surrogates, who’d mostly been quiet, also indicated that their heads of state would also agree with the recommendation. “Now let’s get to the unknown part,” Clovis laced his fingers together as he crossed his legs. “What we know about what this alien is and what it does.”

“On that, I’m afraid we’ve made little progress,” Ulysses Qiao said, speaking prominently for the first time as he took point as the lead speaker. “Nonetheless, we have more than what we started with. The linguistics teams are working around the clock now that we have hi-resolution images of ENIGMA-1.” Some of the images appeared on the screen. “We are undecided if these are symbols, an alphabet, or an interconnected hybrid,” Qiao continued. “We are certain there is a meaning, but as of yet no clear pattern has emerged.”

“Other than it likes circles,” Quinn noted dryly. “A lot of circles.”

“Indeed,” Qiao paced, as the screen changed to a new image focusing on the hull. “As for what it’s made of, we were able to acquire similarly insightful scans. I say ‘insightful’ loosely, because as far as the metallurgists are concerned, that thing is made up of something that doesn’t exist.”

“Doesn’t ‘exist’ as in it’s a new composition?” Clovis asked.

“No, as in it doesn’t exist _at all_ on the periodic table,” Qiao clarified. “There is a zero percent relation to any known element or combination thereof. Of course, we will need a physical sample to get more details, but whatever it is made out of, it has never been encountered before.”

“So we have no idea how strong it is,” Clovis mused, rubbing his chin. “Wonderful.”

“Was any machinery or emitters detected or noted?” Quinn asked, looking at the images. “Like whatever part expels the golden light?”

“That’s another odd thing,” Qiao said, adjusting his glasses. “We don’t see _any_ kind of engine or opening. We believe perhaps the groves from the seals etched into the hull may open, but there is nothing resembling traditional engines or architecture, and we have been unable to map _any_ part of the internal workings of ENIGMA-1.”

“And the light,” Clovis said. “Do we know what that is?”

“We know what it is _not_,” Qiao ticked the items off his fingers. “It’s not a chemical. It’s not nanotech. It’s not gas. It’s not an illusion. We have no idea what it is, truthfully, only that it is seemingly capable of forming without external stimuli or machinery that we have observed.”

“It could be generated from the internal components,” Quinn proposed.

“Which is why I qualified this with ‘that we have observed,’” Qiao answered. “And that doesn’t change the fact that this light still seems to form out of thin air, far beyond a range that should be possible, composed of something we can’t identify.”

“It has to be _something_,” Clovis snorted. “Look at what it did to Mars.”

“Yes, we can see what it’s doing, but as for what it _is_, we don’t know,” Qiao repeated. “Attempts to capture some of it by Ares One were unsuccessful, and the light leaves no residue. It seems to be entirely controlled by ENIGMA-1, and may be a unique byproduct of it. But we cannot confirm this yet.”

“So we basically know nothing more than we did before,” Clovis muttered. “Disappointing.”

“We have never seen anything like this before, General Secretary,” Qiao said with a tight, though still respectful tone. “In light of this, we have changed the designation of what ENIGMA-1 is. Before we labeled it as extraterrestrial. Because we have found no scientifically plausible explanation for the origin, physical composition, and capabilities of it, we have designated ENGIMA-1 as a paracausal entity.”

Clovis frowned. “A what?”

“It’s an obscure theoretical term,” Qiao explained. “Paracasuality is simply referring to things or actions which fall outside the spectrum of what we consider _reality_. The universe operates around fundamental laws. A paracausal entity is capable of subverting or breaking those rules. It is plausible to believe that ENIGMA-1 operates on _some_ kind of internal logic, restrictions, and scientific laws – but they are not _our_ laws.”

Quinn furrowed her eyebrows. “So what are you saying? It’s an extradimensional entity?”

“Potentially, Madam President,” Qiao acknowledged. “I must stress this – _we do not know_ – we are simply making the most accurate hypothesis with the data we have gathered, and all of the data points to something that does not operate along the same fundamental laws we do. For all we know, it operates on laws and principles we are either wrong about, or have not discovered. But as it exists now, the feats it has performed break what we know about the how the universe works.”

He motioned to the image. “Thus, a paracausal entity.”

“Right,” Clovis rubbed his forehead. “In that case, how do we deal with a ‘paracausal entity?’”

“I suppose that leads into our final discussion,” Qian motioned to one of the uniformed woman who rose and walked before the small crowd. “Admiral Holliday, you have the floor.”

“Thank you, Administrator,” Admiral Amanda Holliday of the United States Space Force was one of the few admirals actually _operating_ in space, and in command of one of the few battleships the Triumvirate had ever launched in the first days of Orion. Standing at a modest height, her blonde hair pulled back and her pale skin reflecting some the light from the ceiling, she looked far too young to be given such command.

But she was something of a prodigy, which was how Clovis even knew of her. An eidetic memory, an expert mechanic, and a thoroughly disciplined and professional woman who had been one of the first pioneers of Space Force combat theory. An impressive resume for one so young, and it wasn’t a surprise she’d been tapped to put together a plan to handle ENIGMA-1.

Though personally, Clovis doubted even a prodigy could figure out a plan to handle something like this.

“ENGIMA-1 presents us with too many unknowns,” she began, pacing before the crowd. “As of now we do not a full understanding of it’s capabilities and significance. We do not know fundamental aspects such as if it is automated or not, or if its internal systems or defenses are. We do not know if it could be overwhelmed or if has no discernable limits. The immediate military priority is answering these questions.”

She lifted a finger. “Now, the obvious question is _how_ we do that. I argue that our initial step is simple – we conduct another launch.”

“What?” Clovis asked. “For what purpose?”

“Consider it a theory,” Amanda answered, lowering her hand. “I’m not suggesting we launch an Ares Two – I’m not even saying it has to be Orion-based. We merely launch another rocket into space with a vector towards Mars, and see what happens. If I’m right, ENIGMA-1 is not necessarily acting maliciously – it wants us there. It might consider _anything_ sent up as something to be moved. Which would suggest both that ENIGMA-1 is friendly – or at least non-hostile - and that it has some degree of automation.”

“Hm, not a bad hypothesis,” Quinn rested her chin on her fist. “Cheap too. We send up a rocket with some basic supplies, and see what happens. It’s worth exploring.”

“I’m not sure,” Clovis said slowly, thinking. “If that was the case, it should have intercepted our rockets which regularly supply the Moon, several of which have been launched since Ares One.”

“Ares One was a _very_ public event,” Holliday pointed out. “And it is almost guaranteed that ENIGMA-1 is monitoring us. If a rocket was specifically marked for Mars, it might know. To date, we haven’t sent up anything else – correct?”

“Correct,” Quinn confirmed. “But if it can distinguish what is and is not supposed to be sent to Mars, then that has a significant number of security implications. Especially if these launches are _not_ public.”

“That is something we would have to determine when we have the evidence, Madam President,” Holliday inclined her head. “But I believe it is something we should explore.”

“Agreed,” Clovis nodded. Good. Solutions. This was what they all needed to hear.

“While the military implications of this entity are concerning, I am not of the belief that we should be panicking quite yet,” she continued, and Clovis could imagine the bristling of the ranking generals and officers sitting behind him. No military liked being told that a dangerous enemy was something that they ‘shouldn’t be panicking over’. Even if in this case, Clovis believed she was right. Or at least believed the military solution was not viable, even if this alien wasn’t ‘_friendly’_. “If this entity was hostile, we would know it. Consider what it is doing now with Mars.”

“Terraforming it?” Clovis answered the rhetorical question.

“Yes,” she confirmed. “Specifically – making it livable for _us_. It could have made it anything, but it is specifically making it breathable for Humans. Perhaps a way of making a good first impression, perhaps a gesture of friendship. The _point_ is that it appears to be showing us that it doesn’t mean harm.”

“Maybe that isn’t the intention, but the stunt with Ares One could also be seen as a threat,” Clovis pointed out.

“_We_ see it like that,” Amanda countered emphatically. “This entity might not. I fully believe we are dealing with a sapient entity, or a race of such entities. It is unlikely that they possess the same cultural norms or grasp concepts we do. As impossible as it may sound, there is a distinct possibility that it doesn’t understand concepts like ‘military threats.’”

There were a few polite scoffs in the background, which were ignored. “That said,” she continued. “I also believe in contingency plans. Whatever this ‘light’ substance is, it seems to require a deliberate activation. An active trigger. It could be directly activated or proximity activated. The point is there is _some_ rule it follows. We need to determine if it is one or both.”

She switched some of the images on the projector. “Something interesting I noticed was that it didn’t react to objects that deorbited near it. Small things, like the drone pod and weather balloons. It ignored them, even though they could be a potential threat. I want to test this.”

“How?” Quinn asked.

“Have Ares One jettison some waste or launch a reserve probe, deorbiting it closer to ENIGMA-1,” she advised. “If it does nothing, we know that it probably considers passive objects as harmless. If it removed them, we know it is actively keeping foreign materials out. We follow this up by launching a neutered rocked to see if the shape is also a potential trigger. If not, then we know it isn’t directly filtering nearby foreign objects.”

“And the implications are what?”

“A potential military action,” Amanda said promptly. “Specifically, entry vehicle-mounted nuclear devices just like the Mk.55s on our battleships, detonated close to the entity. If we launch them in such a cover manner, we likely hold a better chance of damaging it.”

“Risky, and relies on a lot of luck,” Clovis muttered. “But frankly better than anything we have so far.”

“If we had an idea of the durability of the metal it is composed out of, that would be invaluable,” Amanda added. “However, I don’t believe it would let us have a piece right now. I propose a military option as a contingency, but my immediate recommendation is that we carry this to its diplomatic conclusion. See what it wants and evaluate. I would suggest we not antagonize it.”

“I would also add to this,” Hardy interjected. “While normally this would not be worth mentioning, the fact that we are dealing with a paracausal entity means nothing can be dismissed.”

“Continue,” Quinn indicated with a wave.

“We have…received a disturbing memo from Ares One not long ago,” Hardy said. “The crew are complaining about ghosts. Seeing things that aren’t there. Hearing things. The impact triangulation systems of the ship have picked up phantom recordings.”

“And these reports aren’t necessarily confined to Ares One,” Amanda pursed her lips. “I’ve received an indication of anomalies sighted on our space assets close to home. The stations. The Moon. Sightings of odd machines, almost mirages. I’d largely dismissed it in light of the stressful situation, but if Ares One is also reporting the same…”

“Then it’s probably something,” Clovis sighed. Always something new. A mass psychosis was not a good sign. “We don’t need a ghost problem right now.”

“I’d argue we _never_ need a ghost problem, sir,” Amanda said, risking a wry smile.

He snorted. “You have a point.”

“Have this be investigated,” Quinn said, standing. “I think that covers everything, unless there is more to say.”

“No ma’am.”

“Good, thank you for your service in this trying event,” she nodded to Amanda and the other uniformed officers. “Return to your duties. Dismissed.”

The soldiers saluted, and Clovis followed her out of the briefing room, ruminating on all he’d heard. So absorbed in thought was he that he failed to notice the object which had been hovering in the corner of the room as the briefing had taken place. With a near-instant flash, it vanished, though not before sending what it had seen to the one which controlled it.

***

**TRIUMVIRATE EXPEDITIONARY CRAFT “_ARMSTRONG_” | MARS ORBIT**

Here it went.

Fang sat strapped into the extremely cramped landing craft. This was something he had been training for all his life. Not landing on Mars, per-se, but landing on places they knew and had traveled to. The Moon, Earth, smooth descents. He would never have imagined that he would be the one sitting in the pilot’s seat for such a historical event.

This was completely uncharted territory, and he was on the precipice of being the first Human to land successfully on Mars.

History. That was what this was.

Not just history, a milestone. A milestone that belonged to Humanity as a whole, not simply the Triumvirate.

Well, first they had to land.

There were only about a dozen of them in the craft. Two pilots. Three mechanics. The rest soldiers and scouts. There’d been talk of Commander Calumet herself coming on this expedition, but thankfully it was only a Space Marine Captain who was sent as the ranking military officer.

It was a decision that Fang was extremely grateful for. It was nerve-wracking enough knowing that a mistake or a malfunction of the essentially untested machine could send them into an uncontrolled crash landing. It would have been worse if one of the highest ranking military officials was caught in it too. But all he had to worry about was getting everyone down safely.

Though as they’d floated, he’d felt surprisingly calm. He couldn’t really explain, nor would if anyone asked, but he had a feeling it had to do with the alien. He had a feeling that no matter what happened, it would be watching, and it would keep them safe.

It was…an odd feeling to have. Faith in something other than his co-pilot and fellow man. More irritating was that he couldn’t explain the source of it beyond a gut feeling. But the alien had transported them here, and it wouldn’t do that unless it wanted them. It followed that it would also want them safe.

Besides, anything which voluntarily turned a dead world into something alive couldn’t be _all_ that bad.

Of course, he couldn’t mention that to anyone else. Half the crew was worried if it turned violent, and the other half was viewing it with caution at best. But Fang truly, genuinely, didn’t think it meant them any harm. But he had nothing to really back this up outside of a good feeling.

And the Triumvirate did not operate on _feelings_.

Whatever the case, he felt calm now.

They’d spent several hours since detaching from the great bulk of Ares One making orbit after orbit over Mars, regularly crossing almost over ENIGMA-1, moving themselves into the right position for entry and landing. Everyone had been strapped in hours before _that, _while the lander was readied for space. Things took a long time in space, but that was only because rushing led to mistakes, and mistakes led to fatalities. He could tell some of the soldiers and mechanics were getting antsy and tired of waiting in the cramped craft, but he believed they’d rather be uncomfortable than dead.

But the wait was over. It was time now.

He looked from the tiny windows to the polarized helmet of Valentin. “Co-pilot, ready?”

The Cosmonaut nodded. “Let’s do it.”

Fang flipped open the radio. “Ares One, this is Expeditionary Craft _Armstrong_. We are standing by to initiate descent and landing. Over.”

_“Acknowledged, Expeditionary Craft Armstrong. Everything looks good from up here. You may decelerate for entry and landing. Good luck and godspeed.”_

“Copy that,” Fang answered, punching the go code into the flight computer and thumping his PA channel: “Alright everyone. Here we go.”

Begin de-orbit burn in T-Minus 60 seconds…mark,” Valentin started.

They worked with minimal distractions, only talking to call out instructions, as well as keeping Ares One in the loop as to what was going on. It was more intense work than he’d had in a long time, but he remembered everything he needed to, and they worked together flawlessly as the landing craft moved closer to Mars bit by bit.

Both worked almost as if they were in a trance. Both utterly calm and focused.

They burned on time, over the night side of Mars, watching the novelty of a lighting storm on Mars. The next Martian dawn saw them closer to the Martian surface already.

“_Armstrong, Ares One: your profile is right down the middle. Velocity is good, angle is good, altitude is good. Expect entry interface in 45 seconds. Good luck_.”

“See you on the other side,” Fang replied. 

He was checking their altitude when the console bleeped. “Hull ionization is starting.” Valentin’s voice was steady, almost jovial. 

“Check. Temperature is going up.” 

Fang waited for the familiar feeling of slowly getting pressed into his seat. _There it was…_ at the edge of his awareness. _Or was it?_

The sensation of deceleration was so minor that he barely felt it.

The hull temperature continued to climb at a steady pace. The gravity was growing stronger, climbed past 1G. Around them, the body of the lander creaked. _It took more than this at launch. It better be holding now._ Fang ignored the roar of the thin atmosphere against their skin, checking the numbers the flight computer spat out. Things were looking good. 

The radio circuit spat hacked digital noise. _“-rm- -one- -eck. Armstrong, Ares One. Comm check.” _

“Ares One, Armstrong. Good to have you back. Armstrong is supersonic at 20 kilometers, landing beacon is acquired. ENIGMA-1 right out the front window.” 

Fang looked up from the console and indeed, there it was. 

“Roger Ares One. Glad to hear it all.”

The Lander shuddered again. The air pressure gauge was spiking rapidly. “Here comes that dense atmo.” The deceleration pressed them into their seats, a sudden spike that robbed the breath. Something groaned in the back, loudly. 

“Got some stress indicators! Nothing critical!”

Fang ignored it. If they lost something now, nothing they could do about it anyway. 

In a gliding S-curve, the lander descended towards the new Martian ground, bleeding velocity and finally, kilometers from the ground, flipping around and deploying drogue parachutes. 

“9 kilometers up. 3 kilometers downrange. 170 meters per second and dropping. Looks good.” 

The main chutes deployed with more bangs and a closer howl of air. “Stand-by for powered descent. Parachute eject… now.” 

The landing rockets kicked in with a roar.

“800 meters up. 40 downrange. 600, 25. 500, 15. 400, 7. 300. 200, on the X. 150. 100.”

_Closer…closer…_

Fang kept a hand right on the controls. If the computer screwed up now… “50 meters. 30. 15.” The outside view became completely obscured by dust. “10. 5. 3. 2. 1.”

There was a sharp shudder as the craft hit the ground. “Contact light!”

Then went still.

“Shutdown! Engines safe.”

Fang released a long, pent-up breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

“Abort mode is up. Stability is…good.”

_We did it._

_We landed on Mars._

Everyone in the craft burst into applause, applause which also sounded from the radio, which reminded Fang what next to do. Valentin let out a cheer of his own, high-fiving Liana who sat behind him; a rare display of joy from the normally stoic Russian. “Ares One, we have landed,” Fang said into the radio, the smile in his voice. “Performing post-landing checks.”

_“Acknowledged, Landing Craft Armstrong,”_ came the reply from similarly ecstatic operators. _“We’ll be observing your movements. And congratulations.”_

“Everyone can unstrap, but don’t move,” Valentin cautioned, which was followed by the sounds of multiple restless passengers unbuckling and stretching as much as they could. “We’ll finish this up as fast as we can.”

Both men worked as quickly as they could, both eager to step out onto the red planet for the first time. “I think that went pretty smoothly,” Fang said as they completed the checks. “All things considered…not a single hiccup.”

“Yeah, I was half-expecting the alien to just teleport us down,” he agreed. “Almost glad it didn’t though. Would have taken the challenge out of it.”

“I don’t know,” Fang admitted. “I haven’t felt that calm in a while. Thought it would be more stressful.”

“You too?” Valentin grunted. “Huh, thought it was just me. No wonder we worked so well.

Hm, it was interesting that they’d had the same experience. Probably just coincidence.

Still, he smiled under his helmet. This would be a day long remembered, not just for the Triumvirate, but for himself. His family was probably ecstatic, and what he had done would ensure the Sovs went down in history as heroes and icons of the Communist Party. He would have influence now in the Empire. Him and his family.

Which could be good and bad, but that could be sorted out later.

It didn’t change the fact there had been a mission to Mars, where the pilot who helped land the first craft, the first craft of a new era, of a _true_ interplanetary era, was a Chinese national!

Past time the Empire got recognized for their space achievements. The Soviets and Americans had taken the big moments already. Thankfully, there were a few left.

“Alright, we’re done,” Valentin stated, stowing his tablet and unbuckling the supply umbilicals. “Let’s prep for EVA.”

It was a hasty business, slowed down by just enough due caution. It was tempting to skip the checklists entirely: there was terrestrial pressure and oxygen outside, after all. But what if the packs malfunctioned and suffocated them? Or something about the environment was more lethal than it seemed? So they took the 40 minutes it took for everyone to squeeze themselves into the spacesuits on the EVA deck. Then:

“Liana, grab the flags. And helmets on. I know it’s technically breathable out there, but at least for now we rely on tanks. Understood?”

There was a chorus of affirmations. Fang swung around, pushed the unlock lever of the hefty exterior door, and pushed. With a hiss, the door disengaged and swung outwards. For a moment he just stood there and beheld the first rays of sunlight from the new Martian sky. It had a light blue hue to it, almost like Earth, but also much deeper; as if it was at a higher altitude. He stepped outside onto the rung and hesitated.

There was probably something he should say to mark the occasion. The first words spoken would go down into the history books all over the world. Yet he wasn’t an orator or poet. Still, there was something undoubtedly true about this. “We’re in a new era now.”

He leapt onto the ground.

The Cosmonaut suit was somewhat bulky for a 0.3 g environment, but not unwalkable. He wasn’t particularly concerned about that now, as the surreal feeling of _being on Mars_ hit him. They stood on the plateau, with their boots covered in red dirt, with some odd Martian trees and vegetation growing around them.

They’d hit pretty close to their landing zone – the radio beacon locator stuck in the ground some 50 meters away, freshly blasted by sand - and all of them leapt out, and began walking to the plateau edge to look out over the red-brown landscape which was surprisingly beautiful. It wasn’t Earth, but there was an exotic quality to it all that Earth simply couldn’t match. It was amazing to see a flowing river run down a Martian canyon. All that was missing was some wildlife.

And a flag.

“I’ll let you do the honors,” Valentin said as he handed the folded up Triumvirate flag to him, while several of the soldiers planted the flagpole in the dirt. Together with Valentin, he hooked it to the flagpole and slowly raised it, until it flew proudly in the Martian wind. All of them stood solemnly before it, and gave their respective nations salute.

And in the distance, hovering in the sky was the creator of this new world.

The alien hung over the land, almost innocently. It did nothing, but Fang had a feeling that it knew it had landed, and that it was watching them.

Time would tell if it was friend or foe.

He reached up and unhooked the seals of his helmet. The oxygen levels were high enough, or so his HUD displayed, and he wanted to know what Mars felt like. With a hiss, he took the helmet off, and shook his head free.

It was cooler than he was expecting. A light breeze rippled and there was the slight tingle of humidity in the air that would signal rain on Earth. It was comfortable and amazing to experience. In the distance, he saw storm clouds forming, and some particles of dirt being blown in the winds below them.

Valentin seemed to also pick up on it as he observed the darkening clouds in the distance. “Looks like we may get a storm. We should get everything set up. Sightseeing can wait. I’m sure we’ll be doing that enough over the next few days.”

“Good point,” with some reluctance, Fang turned away, then paused briefly, thinking he’d seen something. He looked behind him and in the sky he saw something. A blue light was what it looked like, in the center of a…metal star?

“Hey, Valentin,” he called, briefly turning to his friend who had paused his trek.

“What?”

“Do you see that?”

“See what?”

Fang turned around to point it out, and the thing was gone. “I…” he trailed off. “There was something there. Hovering. Like a star.”

Valentin grunted, though it sounded almost resigned. “Everyone’s seeing ghosts now. Wonderful.”

“What?”

“Nothing good,” Valentin motioned him to follow as they trudged back. “Let’s get set up. I’ll tell you about it as we work.”

***

**TRIUMVIRATE OUTPOST BETA | MARS**

To his surprise, Isaiah liked Mars.

Whatever he had thought would greet him on the planet – which was in short, stretches of hot desert with a breathable atmosphere – the reality was far different. A major improvement, in fact. It was surprisingly comfortable, with temperatures resting at a legitimately comfortable level, with the landscape broken up by rivers, lakes, odd Martian plants, and canyons, under a dark blue sky.

It was more of a scenic vacation than an _alien planet_.

Much less one – which, only a couple months ago – had been a barren red rock.

He held some more appreciation for the enigmatic alien now. It certainly knew how to turn a wasteland into something not only livable, but that people would _want_ to live on. Of course, there were a few downsides – namely the massive thunderstorms which came through every few days. The plateau was marked by small gullies, and the craters blasted by lander rockets had turned into small, sometimes star-shaped puddles.

But in the two weeks since the first landing craft had touched down, the Triumvirate had made substantial progress in getting a firm foothold on the planet. He wasn’t thrilled that he was actually _contributing_ to the mission. Though in a way, he wasn’t. He wasn’t supposed to be here at all, and now that he was, he just needed to always pretend to be somewhere else.

Which resulted in him not really doing anything. Not anything that benefited the Triumvirate.

He had some advantages. No one recognized him, a fact which generally worked in his favor. He didn’t make a point to poke around or hang out in places where high-profile people would be. Stealing or killing wasn’t his mission, and that made everything a _lot_ easier. It was so much easier to keep a low profile.

Everyone naturally assumed you were where you were supposed to be. Have a badge or ID card, walk confidently, act like you belong, and no one would ask questions. Simple as that, to the point where he was getting welcoming nods and half-hearted waves whenever he walked through the commons, which normally would be a warning sign that he was getting too much attention.

But here, he didn’t stand out. Not when they were standing on Martian soil involved in arguably the most important mission the Triumvirate had ever undertaken. No one cared about an aging tan-skinned man who may or may not be affiliated with the CIA (helped by keeping close track of what he was wearing depending on where he was or who he was speaking to). Or at least, anyone who _would_ care was otherwise occupied.

But right now, he was simply sipping on a water bottle and sitting on a small plateau where the alien could be seen hovering in the distance.

He’d expected it to do something when the Triumvirate landed. Maybe send an emissary, maybe do a magic trick, maybe vaporize them. But it still did…nothing. Daily hails from Ares One and now the outposts yielded nothing. Although Isaiah wasn’t stupid enough to believe it was being idle.

No, it was being _proactive_.

The ghost stories that were being told around the outposts were only growing in number – and rumors also placed them on the Moon and even _Earth_. Every day he’d hear about how someone had seen a hologram in a weird place, or a floating star hovering over sensitive tech, and more recently people had been violently awoken as their friends walked in on metal stars scanning _people_.

Isaiah smirked at the thought. This made him trust the alien more, actually. It told him this wasn’t a gullible creature who would be so easily persuaded by the Triumvirate diplomats. No, it was performing some vetting of them. Which might explain the silence thus far – maybe it wasn’t sure what to do.

Nonetheless, there was going to be _something_ done soon. There was talk that the Triumvirate was preparing to march on the alien. It was also, helpfully, automatically teleporting spacecraft launched from Earth to Mars. Which meant that in the past few weeks there’s been an influx of additional Triumvirate soldiers.

The influx of resources, manpower, and scalability had led to the construction of two outposts, a barracks, multiple small nuclear reactors and a basic industrial plant, all built in a frighteningly short time. It wasn’t much different from a Triumvirate base in the Middle East – of which he was very familiar with.

It was incredible what could be brought to bear if the Triumvirate demanded it.

Even more outlandish rumors claimed that the Triumvirate was going to send one of the fabled _Battleships_ to Mars. Commanded by Admiral Holliday no less. It was _almost_ a shame that his mission wasn’t a snatch or assassination op. He was sorely tempted to deal with the American prodigy if she showed up – but this wasn’t an ideal environment for taking out one of the most prominent American military officers.

Regardless, Isaiah suspected that even America’s wonder kid wouldn’t be able to solve something like this alien.

As far as Isaiah was concerned, they could go right ahead and turn this into a military operation. It wasn’t as though they stood a chance against this alien. Not if it wanted to act. He suspected that the Triumvirate could send ten thousand soldiers and they would be rebuffed. He was not a man who bet money, but this was a rare exception.

Between the alien and Triumvirate? Clear favorite was the alien.

He wasn’t completely sure where this kind of confidence came from. The Triumvirate was an extremely sophisticated, competent, and powerful war machine when firing on all cylinders. The whole Chinese conquest into the Pacific had proven that – and that was decades ago. They were even more powerful now.

But the awe of realizing what the alien had done teleporting Ares One here still resonated. It seemed effortless.

That indicated power. True power the Triumvirate had never faced.

Maybe hope was clouding his judgement.

For now he would be as objective as he could, not becoming too excited over the possibilities.

But if the Triumvirate was stupid enough to attack, he would be sitting in the back, hopefully drinking a beer, and laughing as they were hopefully taught a long-overdue lesson. Then he would have to hope the alien was willing to talk with him. That was going to be the tricky part. Once contact was initiated, then he could do his _real_ mission.

Until then, he would just observe and wait.

Though it as going to be very tempting if he saw Holliday ever walking around. It would be so easy to put a bullet in her pretty little head.

“There you are!” He glanced up in mild surprise at the voice as an Indian woman marched up to him.

Another unanticipated, but very helpful development was a rapport he had developed with Milya, the linguist who had been seated next to him on the flight from hell. If one could look past the fact that she _was _a Hindu Indian, she was a fairly pleasant person to talk to and thankfully lacking in the fanaticism department. She was quite a talker, and he was a _very_ good listener.

He now knew more about the Triumvirate linguistics programs, and details and facts about the entire field than he had ever wanted to. There was _some_ useful information he’d gathered from her, but that he would sort through when he got back to Earth. She was a useful font of information in other ways though.

Namely, due to her position, she was closely tied to the leadership of the mission. She knew things that weren’t public knowledge yet, and since they got along, and she probably considered a friend now, she felt comfortable enough to share it with him. In return for her telling her story, he had given some details of his own.

All made up, of course, but he’d interrogated enough CIA agents to know how to create a plausible background and worklife. With a little embellishment here and there, and she was suitably interested. It helped that he _was_ something of a spy – only working for the other side. It gave an authenticity to his lie he otherwise wouldn’t have.

“Looking for me?” He asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Yep, should have guessed you were out here,” she smiled, tossing him a packet. “You keep skipping lunch. I have no clue how you’re still alive.”

“I don’t like crowds,” he gave a thin smile, opening the packet which had a neat sandwich packed into it. “Besides, I guess this gets food delivered to me now.”

“Don’t get used to it,” she snorted, taking a seat beside him. “Busy day?”

“Not really,” he answered, not lying – he really _hadn’t_ done much today. Easy when you didn’t officially have an assignment. “Everything seems to be in limbo. You?”

“Honestly?” She rubbed her eyes. “My team has probably done all we can right now. We’re not getting anything more until we go up and interact with the alien. We can only make so many assumptions about symbols and glyphs through pictures.”

He nodded, taking a bite of his sandwich. “So do you have a baseline? An alphabet at least?”

“I have no idea,” she admitted with a sigh. “Maybe? We’ve transposed all of the symbols on the outer hull, so we have _that_. We can clearly see some symbols are connected to, or offshoots of others, but this isn’t much to go on. Generally, when we do linguistical work, we have other things to provide context. Artifacts, archeology, history, and so on. We don’t have anything for the white floating ball in the distance.”

“Well, what next then?” He asked neutrally. “I don’t think it’s going to talk willingly.”

“No, I think it will,” she said confidently. “It’s still bringing ships here. I think it just wants to see us make the first move.”

“Oh?” He wondered slyly. “So the alien is a acting like the equivalent of a teenage boy asking his prom crush out?”

She laughed. “Something like that, actually. Really though, I think it’s just curious. Maybe this is custom in their culture. We don’t know.”

“So my question is this,” he said between bites, pointing to the alien in the distance. “What happens if we go up to it, and you can’t understand it at all?”

“That is _most_ likely to happen,” she corrected with a lifted finger. “It’s going to be very awkward for the first few meetings unless the alien somehow learned one of our languages.”

_And it’ll freak out the Triumvirate a lot if it **does** know our languages. _Isaiah thought to himself, keeping his face straight, though that would be the most amusing development by far.

“Well, as long as you have a plan,” he shrugged. “But there are worse places to be.”

“Never thought I’d say that, but you’re right,” she nodded as they watched the setting Martian sun together. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it.”

“It is,” he nodded sincerely. “Reminds me of home.”

She turned to look at him, a question in her eyes. “Oh? Where did you live?”

That was a lapse. A minor one, but it was there. The smart thing would be to lie…but on the other hand…he was convinced she wasn’t a Triumvirate agent or spy. He had a good read on people, and she was trustworthy so long as he kept his story straight. She was smart, but naïve and easily pliable.

Too trusting in the government, which worked to his advantage sometimes. At the same time, there was an answer she was expecting, and he suspected the truth might provoke some questions. However, they had talked long enough over these past weeks where he was comfortable enough to judge that she wasn’t a _significant_ risk so long as she was treated properly.

Perhaps she could be groomed into a mole or informant. At minimum she could be turned into something _useful_ assuming he played his cards right and his judgement was correct – and when it came to matters of opportunity, his judgement was rarely long. It was a risk, but a worthwhile one right now.

He looked ahead to the setting sun. “Australia.”

“Oh.”

That little word told him all he needed to. Good, she realized the implication and weight behind it…and perhaps trusted him a bit more now that he’d told her a very personal fact about him. A true one, for once. “I’m sorry,” she cleared her throat. “I thought you were…well…I wouldn’t have guessed _Australian._”

“Not surprised,” he answered, unable to keep some of the tightness out of his voice, while he watched her reaction closely. “My family were immigrants to Australia from Yemen. They didn’t get a lot of time to stay there before things went to hell.”

He left out the fact that they’d fled after India had turned Pakistan into nuclear waste – and began their conquest of the Middle East.

Judging from the way she looked away, she probably also picked up on the implication, and didn’t want to make it more awkward than it was becoming. Good, good, no reflexive defense of the Indian government. Promising. “I wasn’t aware,” she said quietly.

“It’s fine,” he waved a dismissive hand. “I was only a child when the war began. We left for America early on. Perfect place to start over, right?”

An obvious lie, as if he’d _actually_ been a child, he would be a few years younger – though he had only been a teen when the Chinese came. Although while many _had_ fled – he had not. If she realized the lie or not, it didn’t seem to matter as she seemed relieved he was so reasonable and academic about the topic. “Right, right. Still, you shouldn’t have been forced to leave like that. The Chinese were too harsh in their…occupation.”

Well, wasn’t she just full of surprises – and as expected his judgement was justifying itself rather quickly. Expressing a slightly negative opinion of the Chinese invasion was _almost_ enough to ignore the fact that she called the invasion an _occupation _– along with the typical failure of Indians to acknowledge their own unprovoked and brutal conquest. But it was a start. There was enough fertile ground to plant some seeds in her head.

Ultimately, she had her head filled with propaganda because if she actually knew the truth, she would have known that the whole ‘Australian refugee’ story was laughably implausible.

As if the Americans were going to accept thousands of Australian refugees, many of whom were related to soldiers. Not when they’d literally _funded and armed_ the Chinese. Most Australians who’d gone to America were gifted a one-way trip to China, and a select number of widows and children were paraded around as an example of American ‘leadership’ and ‘humanitarian virtues’.

Laughable. Disgusting.

But too many left, thinking they could find refuge in America. A few risked India. The smart ones went to Africa or Canada.

America. Land of the Free. Home of the Brave.

_Fucking lies._

He sipped his water. No Australian ever forgot what Triumvirate – and America in particular – had sanctioned. It wasn’t just the Chinese either – America in particular had looked the other way as they supplied the Indians with a nuclear bomb. They knew they were going to use it against Pakistan, but they didn’t care. Pakistan threatened the Triumvirate hegemony and that was intolerable.

India deserved to be destroyed for their crimes, but he didn’t lose sight of the truth. India was an elaborate and controlled pawn of the Triumvirate, which was directed by the American lynchpin. He was in somewhat of an interesting position, being connected to two places the Triumvirate had helped ravage.

Never forgive, and never forget.

But he was ultimately practical. He was an equal-opportunity terrorist – America, China, all of them would burn equally.

Milya looked like she was going to say something more, until her eyes snapped open and she stiffened, staring out into the distance. “Do you see that?”

He looked to the general direction she was gazing in, and immediately he saw it too. It looked like a drone of some kind. In a star-like shape. Difficult to actually make out details in the distance, but it was definitely _there_, and _not_ something he recognized as Triumvirate. It was skirting close to the ground, and hovering over one of the plants.

“So,” he said in a low voice. “One of the illusive ghosts.”

“Yeah,” she peered intently at it. “They’re so common now we’re getting some pictures. Low-quality, grainy ones that you barely make it out for now, but these ghosts are very real. They have to be from the alien.”

“Doing what?” He asked in the same low voice.

“That’s the question,” she said, pulling out her notepad and jotting something down before pulling out her phone. “And no one has an answer yet. But I hadn’t seen one before now.”

“Neither have I,” Isaiah added. “So where did it come from? The alien ship hasn’t opened?”

“I think I know,” Milya lifted her phone, and took several pictures. Once she made sure they were taken, she put her fingers to her lips and, still holding the camera up, sent out a sharp whistle. The mechanical drone flipped around, saw them, and _vanished_ before their eyes. Isaiah blinked. It had just phased out of existence within a moment.

“Figured as much,” Milya made a note after she stopped filming on her phone. “It was the only thing that made sense.”

He nodded. If the alien could make things teleport, it followed that it incorporated that technology into its machines. “What now?”

“Now I go report it,” she said, getting to her feet. “You should do the same.”

Right. Time to play the loyal American agent. “Sure,” he nodded. “I’ll make a report to my superior right away. Almost a shame he’s not where you are.”

“Yeah, I will put you as a witness though in case they have questions,” she nodded. “I guess I’ll see you tomorrow?”

“Think so,” he gave her a short wave and a smile. “See you then.”

As they departed their separate ways, he thought about this recent revelation. Or rather, confirmation of what the alien was doing.

Although it did seem clear what it was doing.

Now he only hoped the alien could make the right judgement.

***

**THE KREMLIN | RUSSIA | SOVIET UNION**

The three men stood facing each other, the mood tense in the dimmed room as they reviewed the collection of images and reports that had been compiled over the past days and hours. The room was small, at most able to fit a half-dozen people around a table, with a small television hanging on the far wall, with a chill in the air from the too-cold air conditioning.

Though the temperature was the last thing on their minds.

“This,” Clovis finally said grimly. “Is not acceptable.”

Luka snorted, and pursed his lips. “As if we have control over it.”

Clovis picked up one of the pictures and cocked his head at the KGB Director rhetorically. “I don’t need to explain the security risk this poses, do I?”

The man in question shook his head. “No, you do not.”

On the table, two dozen pictures had been placed neatly in a file, with three reports from separate agencies and committees confirming the same thing. A flash drive containing hours of videos was also part of the collection, but the images grabbed the most attention. Each picture was unique, taken in different places and at different times, and each portrayed something which could only be described as an alien drone. Or at least that was what it was being classified as. To Clovis’s eye it looked almost star-shaped, or like a diamond.

The center of the drone seemed to be a ball, with the pointed pieces acting as a ‘shell’ for it. Shaky and clear amateur cameras showed that these pieces often moved around, and could somehow _detach_ from the core, and reform. Images and video had more recently been taken from military bases around the world, putting a final nail in the lone hope that it was a hoax.

That would have been bad enough, because unless the Israelis had somehow developed an experimental drone, this was something from ENIGMA-1.

Even still, drones alone were not necessarily a cause for alarm.

_Teleporting_ drones, however, were.

He turned to the other man and nodded. “Play the video.”

Alton Bray, his almost-identical brother, only younger than him by a year, clicked the remote which began playing the video on the screen. On the screen was raw footage from an internal CCTV system – Alton’s system, to be precise. “We’ve been receiving videos and pictures by the dozens,” he said. “Citizens who think that we’re going to run stories on this.”

As part of USSR State Media, Alton was one of trusted curators of what the Soviet citizens saw, and was on the front lines of narrative control. Working primarily in processing citizen tips, he worked very closely with the KGB, Law Enforcement, and Central Committee, in case a citizen accidentally stumbled upon something they weren’t supposed to know.

More recently, that meant being inundated by videos of “paranormal activity.”

If only it could be dismissed as ghost stories.

“Some of the footage was from internal security systems while families were sleeping,” Alton said grimly. “I thought I’d also check my own. I didn’t think I’d find anything, obviously. But I checked back, and this was what I saw.”

The video showed Alton and his wife sleeping in bed, with other cameras focusing on his teenage sons. All of them were peacefully restful. Then one of the drones materialized over Alton’s bed, and hovered there for a few seconds. Then blue light shot out from the central ball, as if it was scanning him.

The scan moved to his wife after a few minutes passed. Neither had stirred. The trio watched silently as the drone blinked to each room, and scanned both sons, before vanishing. Alton ended the video a few seconds later. Clovis pursed his lips. “Do we know if these things are armed?”

“No,” Luka shook his head. “Not that we are aware of.”

“Not especially comforting,” Clovis said grimly, though wasn’t surprised. “If it’s this brazen…it either knows what it is doing, and doesn’t care, or doesn’t know that we can catch it in the act – or _have_ caught it in the act. The ghosts are going to cause a pandemic if this keeps going on.”

“It will, trust me,” Alton emphasized. “Social media is filled with pictures, video, and everything you can imagine about this. Every hour there are another dozen sightings. India in particular is going crazy with the conspiracy theories, fed by additional media speculation.” He shook his head. “The Americans aren’t much better. I don’t know what the alien is doing, but this is becoming unnerving. It’s not a joke anymore, people are starting to get scared. They need a statement or explanation. It’s not going to go away.”

“I would say we should try and capture one,” Luka rubbed his chin. “But considering they can vanish at will…this is not feasible.”

“It does appear that they can be snuck up on,” Clovis pointed out slowly. “It’s likely they’re electrically powered – a high-power voltage could incapacitate one.”

“And we have no guarantee that would work,” Luka countered. “Or that it wouldn’t suddenly trigger a dozen more of these things to converge and kill whoever attacked it.”

“It doesn’t help that they can be anywhere,” Clovis said, feeling the urge to look around and make sure there wasn’t one just hovering above him. “You’re certain there is _nothing_ that can be done?”

“By all account these drones seem skittish,” Luka shrugged. “As we’ve seen, all it takes is a sharp sound and they blink out of existence. My guess is that they’re fragile – but difficult to hit in the first place. A recon unit seems to be the most logical explanation. Scanning, surveillance, it fits the criteria perfectly.”

That did not make him feel good. The implications were alarming. It wasn’t that they had a recon unit that could teleport – frankly the fact that it was probably unarmed meant very little, because there was _nothing_ which indicated that the alien didn’t have a small army of teleporting drones which _were_ armed.

And unlike conventional drones, walls and rooms wouldn’t be able to protect them.

He was in the uncomfortable position of knowing that they were one command away from being assassinated by these teleporting drones. “So why all the subterfuge?” Alton asked, starting to pace. “If it wants to talk, it should talk.”

“Maybe it’s probing us for reactions,” Luka wondered. “Or it is signaling a warning. Maybe it feels threatened by the soldiers on Mars. Maybe this is something it does. I do believe that the best plan would be to not delay, and actively approach it on Mars. It _has_ to do something when we directly confront it.”

“Is everyone on Mars prepared?” Alton asked quizzically. “We’ve only properly been there just over a month.”

In fact, they were _incredibly_ well-developed on the planet, largely thanks to ENIGMA-1 helpfully teleporting spacecraft filled with everything they needed to the planet. Mars was currently easier to reach than the _Moon_. Two full outposts, reliable (if delayed) two-way communications, minimal stationary defenses, and full garrisons.

“That is only a matter of giving the command,” Luka stated. “The bases and personnel are ready.”

“Admiral Holliday is in position to move the Battleship into the teleportation zone,” Clovis added, referring to the are of space they had designated where the alien teleported objects and spacecraft to Mars. Holliday has been ecstatic when they’d confirmed her theory, and now she’d get to see the alien up close.

“Are we going to execute her contingency?” Luka asked, appraising Clovis.

“We’re not going to take any chances,” Clovis answered, closing the folder. “She was right about the teleportation. Hopefully her plan is similarly inspired. Once that is in position…we approach the alien. Three days, minimum.”

“The rest of the Triumvirate should sign off on it,” Luka advised. “We should not go behind their backs. Not to mention she isn’t under our command.”

“Of course, Triumvirate consensus is essential,” Clovis said. “Quinn is already on board, and I can’t imagine Li or Gopal refusing to also sign on.” Luka seemed to find that acceptable, nodding as Alton spoke again.

“Do we plan to broadcast the approach?” The man asked, redirecting the subject.

“Not live,” Clovis shook his head. “Unnecessary. We don’t want another Ares One. If it goes well, we show the world – like the initial Mars landing. If not, no one needs to know about it. I’ll ensure that the rest of the Triumvirate follows suit. The last thing we want to show is another public event gone wrong.”

“Noted,” Luka nodded. “I’ll be prepared.”

“I wonder,” Alton said, lifting a hand. “These ghost sightings – they aren’t confined to Earth, are they? Are you receiving similar reports on the Moon?” A pause. “I understand if you can’t tell me, but we’ve received some videos – purportedly from personnel on the Moon. I would prefer knowing if these are hoaxes or not.”

Clovis and Luka exchanged a look before Clovis answered with a confirming, if nonchalant shrug. “Moon’s haunted.”

“Figured as much,” Alton sighed, rubbing his eyes. “Let’s hope the mystery is solved soon. It’s going to be hard to keep ignoring this for much longer before the public gets a lot more vocal. And…brother?”

“Yes?”

“I’d check if the drones have visited you,” he said. “If they’re interested in me…”

Clovis ran a hand through his hair, taking a deep breath. “Perhaps…” he began. “But between us, I think I’d be better off not knowing.” He thought of the drones, hovering over him and Zexian, over Ana, over his children separated across the world.

And there was nothing he could do to protect them or stop the threatening machines the alien had unleashed.

“Personally,” he finished in a low voice. “I’d prefer if I was able to fall asleep, at least for a few more days. I’m sure you can understand.”

Alton gave a solemn nod. “Unfortunately, I know exactly what you mean.”

***

**TRIUMVIRATE OUTPOST ALPHA | MARS**

The time had come.

While Valentin was technically not part of the Space Marines, the Triumvirate was assembling everyone who could hold a weapon or provide assistance in the event things went terribly wrong. Legions of soldiers marched in formation as they lined up on the Martian soil, preparing to march on the alien.

Well, march was a strong word. It obviously wouldn’t be a proper march, despite the alien only seeming to be a short distance away. But size could be deceiving, and when the Triumvirate moved, it would be through troop transports which were being driven up and preparing for the soldiers to occupy them.

Commander Calumet stood at the front of the assembled legions, surrounded by a small cadre of advisors, diplomats and linguists. She was speaking to some of them, and he was too far away to even guess what they were saying. A few cameramen were placed throughout the ranks, no doubt broadcasting this back to Earth. He recognized some famous Soviet anchors speaking into the camera – all state media, unsurprisingly.

He peered a bit closer at the other media outlets. The Americans didn’t have a state media, but no one was dumb enough to believe the largest outlets weren’t government mouthpieces – in any event there was no even partially independent media present. All state media, or equivalents thereof from the Triumvirate.

Predictable.

Valentin doubted that it was being broadcast live as a result, and didn’t completely blame them. It didn’t seem like something the Soviet Union at least would allow; not after Ares One had vanished. That alone would have prompted a frantic response.

Regardless…it didn’t change the fact that they was only hours away before history was made – one way or another.

“Ready for this?” Fang asked, striding up, weapon slung over his shoulder. The technical crew of Ares One were allowed a bit more freedom of movement before the approach, which was why Liana was in one of the Space Force squads, dutifully waiting for orders instead of waiting with him.

Hopefully they’d have a lot to talk about later.

“Truthfully?” Valentin answered, watching as more squads arrived and troop transports rolled out. “I don’t know. I think this may be the wrong approach.”

“What, going up to the potentially hostile alien with an army while just saying we want to talk?” Fang asked lightly, covering the biting sarcasm. “I agree. I suppose the Triumvirate wants to project an image of strength. Or make themselves feel better.”

“A show,” Valentin snorted; it was a sentiment that was kept under wraps, but he definitely wasn’t the only person on the planet to express it – privately, at least. “All theatre. Everyone on Earth knows well it wouldn’t go well if this thing attacked us. But it looks good for the cameras, so therefore it happens.”

“Mmm,” Fang looked up into the sky. “Holliday is here though. I don’t think they’d send her unless they had _some_ kind of plan in case things went bad.”

“Holliday?” He asked incredulously. “That’s actually true?”

That did actually change things. Ever since the Battleship had appeared in the Martian sky, rumors had flowed that Holliday herself was in command, but he hadn’t believed it. The Americans wouldn’t risk their own genius like this…then again Commander Calumet was here, but it was slightly different since this was _before_ they knew the alien could teleport entire starships. She was more or less stuck here now. There shouldn’t be any reason to risk people like Holliday.

“Don’t know the rationale, it was only just confirmed to me a couple hours ago,” Fang answered with a shrug. “What I heard is that she’s been involved a lot with the strategy. She might have a plan or know something we don’t.”

“Perhaps, but I doubt it,” Valentin idly surveyed the Martian landscape. “Like I said – a show. Some weird attempt at intimidation I have to guess. How exactly are we going to get that Battleship back to the Moon?”

“Ask the alien nicely?” Fang suggested lamely. “I don’t know!”

Valentin just snorted, eliciting a chuckle from Fang.

The arrival of the Battleship had been accompanied by another wave of military supplies, a dozen landers every day which had touched down at the outposts. Heavy ordinance, light tanks, mobile transports, missile launchers, missile defense systems – a plethora of conventional military equipment. A whole week had been dedicated to making the two Martian outposts into hardened fortifications. Rumors of nuclear ordnance had flared up, but just as swiftly been squashed.

That ordinance was now pointed at the alien which hovered over the red Martian land, an ever-present constant in the sky.

In the distance, hovering just under the alien, he saw a few glimmers. By this point it was clear that the alien was observing them with machines. The ghosts were very real, and they were watching. And there seemed to be many of them. It had contributed to the uneasiness in the air, and simmering distrust of the decisions being made back on Earth.

It was a very simple calculus for them – if the alien was using drones which could impersonate, teleport, and hover silently, the chances that it couldn’t arm them were very slim. So if the alien felt it was threatened, very few of them felt comfortable with their chances. The continued military buildup was not viewed favorably, even as a precaution.

It certainly didn’t make them feel more safe.

How exactly could they feel safe when an alien drone could teleport in front of them and blow their heads off before they could react?

They were playing with something they didn’t understand, and in this case what they didn’t understand could kill them. The Triumvirate back on Earth seemed to have a hard time understanding this.

“You see something?” Fang asked, seeing him focus out into the distance.

“More of our ghosts,” he said, reaching for binoculars he’d taken to carrying around since the sightings had become common. “All in front of the alien now. I think they know we’re coming.”

Zooming in, he saw a half-dozen of the machines, all of which looked identical to each other. Star-shaped drones with a central optical receptor, somehow able to hover, and unknown if they could attack or not. But unlike the previous behavior, they were just hovering; waiting. They knew they were being watched.

_“Load up!”_ Came the command from Commander Calumet, having finished her conversation with her advisors, and every single member of the Triumvirate stood at attention, as him and Fang took their cues.

“Good luck,” Valentin said to Fang, grasping each other’s forearms in a farewell of brothers in arms.

“You too,” Fang said. “See you on the other side.”

They split up and joined their respective positions as the troops prepared to load in as the tanks began rolling up, along with the missile carriers and APCs. Valentin half-expected one last inspiring speech from the Commander, but for once she didn’t seem to have one.

Maybe she would give it on the road.

Valentin took his seat in the transport, and for once, the normally bantering soldiers were silent, their bodies tense and minds focused as the transports closed their armored doors. All of them knew that the next few hours would likely be the most important they had experienced in their lives – and if it went badly, probably their last.

But this was why they had come. This is what they were here for.

It was time to learn why the alien was here – and more importantly - what it wanted.

***

TO BE CONTINUED IN **CHAPTER IV | TRAVELER**


	6. Chapter IV | Traveler

**ACT I | THE TYRANT’S MALEVOLENCE**

***

**ENIGMA-1 TARGET ZONE | MARS**

The vehicle came to a halt.

This was it.

Valentin took a breath, and stood with the rest of the soldiers, who moved out of the transport with weapons at the ready. The Martian soil caked their boots in red dirt as the assembled forces organized into formations. Now outside, Valentin was once again struck by how _massive_ the alien spacecraft was up close.

It hovered ominously; notably threatening for a simple sphere, directly from a physical standpoint.

But curiously, he didn’t feel nervous. There seemed to almost be an ethereal glow around it; a presence surrounding the alien sphere that gave it an almost surreal feeling. A comfortable warmth that permeated his entire being and those around him. Valentin didn’t know if it truly came from the alien or not, but it would certainly be a coincidence if it was, considering he hadn’t been feeling like that before coming to this area.

The collection of the soldiers, news anchors, and support personnel marched forward in organized formation with Commander Calumet up front, with the linguists close behind. The plan from what Valentin knew was simply keep getting closer to ENIGMA-1 until it acknowledged them in some way. Given that the ghosts had been observing them, it was clearly aware of them.

Something had to happen soon, unless the alien wanted to play coy.

Then one of the machines appeared, hovering just above Calumet and the entourage. A second one appeared a millisecond later. Then a third. A fourth. Before their eyes dozens upon dozens of the machines materialized out of thin air. The soldiers were already tense, and hands gripped weapons tighter as they beheld the drone swarm materializing around them. Even Valentin had to resist the urge to lift his weapon – though he still didn’t feel he was in danger.

Not yet, anyway.

The drones weren’t materializing just in front of them either; they were appearing to the sides and even behind them - As well as directly above individual formations. A trio of the ghosts materialized over his own formation, seeming to look down on them forebodingly; the star-shaped parts whirring and spinning, with electronic bursts and warbles coming from them intermittently. The single eye in the center of their shell glowing blue focused all of them, flicking from person to person, probably scanning them.

Looking past the ones directly over him, he saw the machines _everywhere_. They were all exactly the same; or at least had the same model. A four-pronged star-shaped shell, or eight-pronged if one counted the back, surrounding a single ‘eye’. Valentin couldn’t see an obvious engine or means of propulsion, but there had to have been something keeping them afloat.

_Ghosts indeed._

“Weapons ready,” Calumet ordered calmly from the front though her internal link, though he was close enough that he could hear her normally. Presumably, the alien machines wouldn’t be able to hear. “Do not fire yet.”

As one, the soldiers of the Triumvirate raised their weapons at Ghost nearest to them, Valentin included. The machines almost seemed startled, darting slightly back, the rear prongs spinning as they moved. A few vanished and reappeared a short distance later; teleporting through their unknown methods.

They kept a larger degree of distance, but still observed mutely.

That was almost comforting, since it indicated that the weapons could hurt them. Valentin believed that these were largely surveillance drones, not military ones - presumably. If it was a good or bad thing that only the observation drones were being sent out was something yet to be decided. The alien could be holding the military drones in reserve.

_Or we’re all making too many assumptions._

Calumet motioned up one of the linguists who began speaking. “Greetings, unknown entity,” the linguist said in English. “I am Milya Mihaylova, I speak for the Triumvirate, of the planet Earth. We come in peace.”

Despite the situation, Valentin felt an ironic smile cross his face. ‘_We come in peace’_, they said, as they brought a small army and were currently raising weapons at the machines. She could have picked a less cliché line. She was probably only doing it to establish a baseline, and confirm the alien didn’t speak a Human language.

One of the closet drones lowered itself to eye level, gave an electronic warble, and spoke. “[Greetings, speaker of Earth. We do not intend harm to your people. We ask that your weapons be lowered.]”

Valentin clamped his mouth shut before a shout of surprise could escape it. He should have heard the voice over the external microphone pickups. Instead… it was as if they were standing in an unseen room, his suit and every other source of noise or absorption removed. An odd feeling of dissonance passed through him: he knew they had been spoken, but had he actually heard them? He wasn’t sure. The iris of the main Ghost had turned a golden color, and as he looked above, he saw the drones hovering had also adopted the same color, and there was a slight distortion around them.

Were they linked as a projection system of some sort? Channeling the words of the speaking Ghost?

He had heard the words in perfect Russian. If he hadn’t been aware of where it had come from, he would have assumed it to be a native speaker. It was flawless pronunciation and usage. It was in a generic-esque male voice, more robotic than normal, but certainly acceptable.

Milya seemed surprised, continuing to speak in English. “You speak our language?”

The Ghost made a warbling noise. _Or did it?_ Then it not-quite-spoke: “[We have been cataloging your many languages, and have stored them for ease of access and to more effectively facilitate communications. Many people are often incapable of assimilating new languages easily. We have identified the spoken languages of those assembled, and are translating for convenience.]”

The subtext being that the aliens somehow knew which languages each of them spoke – which they shouldn’t know unless they’d spent a lot of time figuring that out. Well, the Ghosts hadn’t been idle, obviously. Valentin didn’t necessarily care about the invasion of privacy at this moment, as with the barriers to communication shattered, real questions could be answered.

“Weapons down,” Calumet ordered. “We greet you in peace, alien. Conflict is not our objective.”

As one, the soldiers lowered their weapons, if a bit hesitantly, even as some stared suspiciously up at the hovering machines. “What do we address you as?” Milya asked. “Whom do you represent?”

“[We are merely autonomous systems of our creator,]” the drone hovered and angled slightly upward; bobbing to indicate ENIGMA-1 behind it. “[The Traveler.]”

A name for the extraterrestrial visitors.

Not the one he would have guessed, honestly. _Seems oddly…generic_.

“Who is the Traveler?” Milya asked. “We wish to speak with them directly.”

The Ghost again indicated the sphere. “[That is the Traveler.]”

“The Traveler is in the sphere?” Calumet inquired.

“[No, that _is_ the Traveler,]” the Ghost repeated.

“The sphere is the Traveler?” Calumet didn’t bother disguising her confusion. “Is the Traveler a machine like you? An artificial intelligence? The sphere is the platform?”

“[No, the Traveler is not mechanical,]” the machine confirmed. “[Although she is not biologically equivalent to life in this galaxy. It is difficult to explain, but the sphere you believe to be a vessel is the shell which contains her. A body in essence; the function of which is little different from your own.]”

Difficult to explain was probably an understatement. Valentin genuinely wasn’t sure how that did, or _could_, work outside of something like an AI. He had odd images in his head of some kind of tree-growth plant-based mind contained in a floating greenhouse. Probably wrong, but there was clearly something to the ‘Traveler’ as ‘she’ was apparently called.

She. So aliens did have genders then?

Just from looking at the sphere, he wondered how that even worked. Not really the right time for idle musings like that though. He suspected that there would be a lot more learned about the Traveler in the coming days.

“In which case, we are glad to know who has arrived in our system,” Milya continued. “But we must know – why has the Traveler come here?”

The Ghost hovered in the air, the prongs of its shell spinning as it’s eye moved around – it was curiously expressive for a machine, and Valentin instinctively felt a bit more comfortable around it than a stoic machine. Almost made it seem alive.

“[The Traveler comes with a message to your species,]” it finally said. “[A message which is intended for the leaders of your people. You are but one species in a vast galaxy, and there are truths you do not know. It is only a matter of time until your species is threatened by forces outside of your knowledge and control. The Traveler seeks to ensure that harm does not befall the innocent species of the galaxy.]”

There were immediately murmurings among the soldiers at that. Valentin himself frowned. In those few sentences were significant implications. First that there were _definitely_ more alien species out there – second that some of said species were threatening. And that the details were only to be shared with the Triumvirate directly.

Guess this is what the diplomats were for.

“Why did you terraform Mars?” Milya asked, asking an odd follow up question, in Valentin’s opinion. “Why not make contact with us directly when you arrived?”

The Ghost whirred. “[The Traveler turned this world into a place where your people can thrive as a gift; a demonstrative promise of her intentions. The distance gave you time to observe her actions and understand her intent. And she is always curious how a people react to her appearance.]”

Huh. So this _was_ the alien showing that she had good intentions. Interesting. _Or at least it says so_, another part of his mind reminded him.

“A test?” Calumet asked, cocking his head.

The front prongs of the Ghost spun. “[An acceptable term, Commander Calumet.]”

Valentin was fairly certain Calumet had never given her name.

“One we passed, I presume?” Calumet asked cautiously.

“[Your people have been judged as holding potential,]” the Ghost said serenely. “[Many of your people may be allowed to wield the Light. Others will not. As it is with all species. There are concerns the Traveler holds with your people, but she is prepared to judge for herself, and by your own actions.]”

“The Light?” Milya asked.

Valentin had a feeling he knew what the ‘Light’ was.

Above them, the Traveler began glowing brightly, the golden glow they had seen before becoming apparent. The warm feeling grew stronger. The ghost closest to Calumet became encased in the power itself, the prongs separating and angling themselves towards the ground as golden beams shot from the eye, and before their eyes saw one of the Martian trees grow from the ground.

“[The Light is the fundamental power of creation in this universe,]” the Ghost explained, the power fading from the shell and returning to normal. “[It brings life to where there is none. It brings hope where such has faded. It bestows power upon the Guardian. It protects the helpless. It dispels the Darkness. The power of the Light is only as limited as the imagination of those who wield it.]”

Valentin could imagine that this display was causing a bunch of thoughts to run through Calumet’s head – probably how massive a military advantage this power would be. He couldn’t say he wasn’t thinking of that too, but it seemed almost a waste when this power could do something like turn a dead planet into a livable one.

_Assuming_ the machine wasn’t exaggerating, they could change Earth itself, and those who lived on it, forever. Philosophical insinuations aside, it was clear the Light was power, and that power could do a _lot_.

“And this power…” Calumet said slowly. “Only the Traveler wields it?”

“[No,]” the Ghost answered bluntly. “[It can be given to any people; the Traveler has bestowed it upon her champions and those who seek a galaxy as she envisions it. It is a blessing and a commitment. It is not a power given lightly, and only to the most worthy.]”

Valentin remembered the Ghost had said some of them had ‘potential’ while others did ‘not’ moments ago. Did that mean if they were worthy enough to use this power? If so…they were going to be the most sought-after people in the Triumvirate. He’d seen enough of the Triumvirate to know this is a power they would do anything for.

Calumet cleared her throat. “This is very informative. We are willing to negotiate with you further. If you are in need of allies, I believe that such an arrangement could be beneficial for the Traveler and our species. You doubtless have technology far beyond our own, which our own people would deeply appreciate.”

“[Yes,]” the Ghost confirmed, bobbing in the air. “[We would provide it for the benefit of your people.]”

Well, that was a good sign, though Valentin wondered how much of it would be used for the benefit of the people. Clovis would probably put all of it towards military supremacy. Or augmenting the KGB. Or put everything into Bray Incorporated. Valentin was not expecting whatever the Traveler gave to be given to the working class. Not unless Clovis got something tangible out of it.

“Excellent,” Milya nodded. “We are ready to speak to the Traveler directly as needed. Commander Calumet has been authorized to negotiate on behalf of the Triumvirate.”

“[She is denied,]” the Ghost said flatly, and electronic warble punctuating the end of the sentence. “[The Traveler will not speak with her.]”

Valentin could imagine the Commander blinking at that. He couldn’t say he wasn’t surprised as well. “Sorry?” Calumet demanded, stepping forward. “Why not?”

“[You are judged to not be an appropriate ambassador between the Traveler and your people,]” the Ghost elaborated. “[The Traveler has identified individuals she judges as acceptable and will permit their entry.]”

“I can respect your initiative, but we have predetermined protocols.” Calumet lifted a hand, a tinge of annoyance in her voice. “_I_ have been authorized to negotiate directly by the Triumvirate heads of state. I will only bring in several of my linguists and second in command. If necessary, we could request for another to be cleared, but it would take time.”

“[Unnecessary, the Traveler has determined who she will speak with,]” the Ghost stated. “[And she will speak to them imminently. The negotiations you expect are not required. It has been decided, and these individuals will convey her message to your leaders.]”

Valentin was wondering who was possibly identified. Calumet had the same question. “Who?”

“[Identifying,]” the Ghost said with a whir. Valentin heard something above him, and saw another Ghost hovering above him spinning its frontal prongs, and the eye glowing white, and before he could say anything, there was a bright flash and he was suddenly standing just off to the side of the Calumet’s entourage, facing them.

Oh no.

_You have got to be kidding me._

He wasn’t the only one. To his surprise, both Fang _and_ Liana were beside him, clearly as surprised as he was, as well as Milya, the linguist, and another guy who looked very out of place compared to the rest of them. He looked like one of the CIA agents which had come, and he looked _very_ on edge. Fairly old guy too, at least compared to them.

“I think there’s been some mistake,” Valentin said slowly, knowing that Calumet was probably wondering if he was compromised.

Now he felt nervous.

His fault or not, this practically guaranteed a visit by the KGB.

“[Do not worry, there is no mistake,]” the Ghost assured him – or tried to assure him, floating down to him. “[The Traveler selected all of you personally.]”

He could feel Calumet’s scorching gaze through her helmet. He didn’t know how to convey just how much this was _not_ something he wanted. “I cannot speak for the others,” she said, looking at the ghost. “But this man is a Cosmonaut. Not even an Officer. He isn’t authorized for this kind of operation, especially not without an escort.”

_Thank you. Come on, Ghost, respect our customs. I don’t want to visit the KGB._

“[The Traveler is aware,]” the Ghost repeated. “[Your authorization is not needed to meet with her.]”

“We’re going in circles,” Calumet muttered. “With all due respect, you have yet to provide a sufficient reason an authorized individual – myself – is not permitted while these individuals are.”

The ghost bobbed. “[Operation Silver Bullet, 2004, authorized by Special Operative Evie Calumet. The Traveler does not believe you are compatible to serve as an ambassador between her and your leaders.]”

Valentin had no idea what it was referencing, but judging from Calumet’s reaction and immediate reaching for her pistol, it was _not_ supposed to be something the alien should know. Her tone was scathing. “How did you get access to that?”

“[Everything pertinent was reviewed,]” the Ghost answered in a neutral voice. “[This judgement is final. Please do not insist further.]”

“I’m afraid we can’t do that,” Calumet motioned to a formation of nearby Space Marines. “You’ll have to wait for your ambassadors, Ghost. Inform your Traveler of that. You understand that we need to speak to these people you have selected before we can allow them to conduct negotiations on behalf of the Triumvirate. Take them into custody.”

This could not actually be happening. But there was literally nothing he could do, since Calumet was a direct superior. Compliance was his only option unless he wanted to be disappeared, and he was _more_ than happy to state that he had no idea this was happening or why the alien would want to talk directly to him. There was a formation of the Space Force also marching up, though they kept their distance, seeming to wait to see what happened first.

“This is ridiculous,” Liana protested, though weakly, even as she glared both at the ghost and Calumet. “Tell your Traveler none of us agreed to this, and we don’t know anything!”

“Liana, it’s fine,” Valentin placated, putting a hand on her shoulder, although he could imagine Calumet was going to personally interrogate each one of them, individual nationalities be damned. “We’ll comply. Trust me, Commander, none of us know the reason behind this.”

“Speak for yourself,” the unknown man glared at Calumet. “You can take your people into custody, but I do not answer to you.”

Great, the last thing they needed was a clash here. Of course the CIA was going to cause problems. Calumet was clearly not in the mood, from how long she stared the man down. The man surprisingly held her gaze. Not many could do that, especially when she was wearing her helmet.

Though there was something off about this man. He seemed more hardened than any of them, especially in his eyes. Even for a CIA agent, the man immediately put him on guard, and everything screamed ‘danger’ about him. Calumet spoke slowly after a few long seconds.

“You will agree that these are unusual circumstances, and I _do_ in fact have authorization to detain anyone should there be justification. Being singled out by a previously unknown alien entity certainly qualifies.” She looked to the Ghost. “_If_ everything checks out, we will let them speak with the Traveler.”

The Space Marines moved closer to him, and Valentin resigned himself to his fate and hoping the KGB believed him. What a turn this day had taken. Without warning, a dozen more Ghosts materialized before the chosen ambassadors, with the electronic irises now glowing red. The main ghost floated before the formation. “[I would advise you refrain from taking these individuals into custody.]”

“Ghost, it’s fine,” Valentin waved it off, not wanting to make this any worse. It was clearly trying to be helpful, but all it was doing was ensuring that his talk with the KGB was not going to just be verbal, but a _lot_ more physical. _Please, just shut up._ “It shouldn’t hopefully be too long.”

Oh, but it would. He was definitely not seeing the inside of that sphere. He’d be lucky to see Earth again at this rate.

“[We have knowledge of Commander Calumet’s methods and psychology,]” the Ghost said coldly and yet almost apologetically. “[This is for your own safety.]”

How nice, it knew it was screwing him and actively making it worse. The Ghost angled towards Calumet. “[Return your soldiers, or there will be consequences.]”

“You do not get to dictate what happens to our personnel. Move your machines away,” Calumet rejected, gesturing and the soldiers raised their weapons again at the Ghosts. But this time, instead of retreating back, the irises of the machines turned red, matching the Ghosts facing down the formation of Space Marines. “This is a Triumvirate matter now.”

“[Please, do not make this more difficult,]” the Ghost warned. “[We shall act and remember.]”

“Take them in,” Calumet ordered, determined to call the bluff of the ghosts.

“[Unfortunate.]” The Ghost _blinked_ _to_ materialize above Calumet. The iris of the Ghost flashed white and beams of blinding light shot out like small strobe lights, moving around Calumet’s body and enveloping the Commander in a white mesh of light. It lasted mere milliseconds before she glowed white like a hologram and vanished in an instant. It was accompanied by the dozens of ghosts around them doing the same thing, and soldiers, anchors, and support staff, vanished before his eyes.

All but one of the formation which had come to take them into custody were seemingly vaporized in flashes of white light, leaving only a single Space Marine who immediately threw her weapon on the ground, raising her hands in surrender at the hovering Ghosts. Several of the remaining soldiers tried firing their weapons into the air, but the ghosts easily dodged and then vaporized the guns they were holding away the same way they’d vaporized the people, leaving them weaponless.

A heavy silence reigned.

Valentin just stood paralyzed, seeing the commanding officer and hundreds of soldiers just…gone. _Vaporized!_

“[There we go,]” the Ghost floated over to him. “[Apologies for the chaos. We expected her to be more reasonable.]”

“You didn’t…” Valentin swallowed, trying to form words. “You didn’t _kill_ her, did you? All of them?”

The ghost warbled. “[Of course not. Fatal violence was unnecessary. They have simply been returned to Earth, perfectly safe. But they would have caused issues later, and I suspect none of us want to deal with that. With the troublesome elements removed from the planet, we should be able to proceed.]”

The ghost seemed to cocked its ‘head’, looking almost inquisitively at the dumbfounded quintet who looked at each other, realizing they didn’t really have a choice in what to do now. “[Do you have any questions?]”

***

**THE KREMLIN | RUSSIA | SOVIET UNION**

This was a historic day.

Historical, though not necessarily going as planned.

Clovis would have felt more pleased if he were actually able to _witness _this historic event in its entirety_._ As it stood, that was _not_ happening.

The entire cabinet was assembled as the event was broadcast from Mars to Earth. There was a significant delay when watching, of course, but it was acceptable considering the technological restraints. All precautions which could be taken had, and each were ready to play their part. The Soviet anchors present on Mars had not focused on commentary so much as capturing the event itself.

Dutiful and loyal to the finest detail. A credit to the Motherland.

It was not to say the event had been viewed nonchalantly; it had become stressful at times, where each and every one of them were on the edges of their seat and helplessly watching through screens. There had been several moments of alarm, starting when the drones – or ‘Ghosts’ as they had been dubbed unofficially – began appearing out of thin air. Clovis, and quite a few others, had been concerned that they were going to attack.

The fact that there were so _many_ was not an encouraging sign either.

The cameramen present hadn’t been sure how to react at first either, and the cameras had panned all over, almost in a panic, darting from Ghost to Ghost, as if to show that they were everywhere. At least they had some high-quality images now, but it was small comfort – or really useful considering they’d been harvesting images of the Ghost intrusions already.

But they’d not appeared to be hostile, and they’d all slightly relaxed when the main Ghost had started speaking.

Still, Clovis knew a show of force when he saw one.

The alien – the _Traveler_ as ‘she’ was called – knew exactly what it was doing.

Clovis was less surprised that the Ghost spoke one of their languages. From the data available, the alien had been scoping them out this entire time, and it followed that the language would have been one of the first things prioritized. Which was good news, ultimately. Being able to communicate with the alien was better than the alternative.

_The Traveler._

An interesting name. More likely an easily translatable title. It implied an exploratory focus; less of a military affinity, which could bode well for them. Commander Calumet had done well in emphasizing their technological deficiency, and cleverly implying the alien could help them. Which the Traveler – or the speaking Ghost at least – had agreed to.

They had heard the Ghost describe the ethereal power it called ‘Light’, and that the Traveler had a message specifically for them. Both of which Clovis was _especially_ eager to hear more of.

Then the video had cut out.

Only a blank screen. Not even any static.

It wasn’t just the Soviet feeds either. Channels with the other Triumvirate leaders who were watching confirmed the same thing. Every single feed which originated from Mars had gone completely dead. The engineers were trying to diagnose what had happened – so far their own statement was “loss of signal” - but Clovis suspected something less benign than a technical error had happened.

An outage on their end he could understand. One mistake was all that was needed, infuriating as it might have been. His irritation had faded once it was confirmed not to be the case.

_Everyone_ who was watching lost connection at the same time? Not a coincidence.

A few in the room were growing impatient with the delay, with some taking it out on the engineers. Clovis waved it off; it wasn’t their fault, and it was definitely not on their end. There was very little they could do except confirm it wasn’t their fault, and hope it came back. Clovis sincerely hoped there would be full recordings.

He did not want to rely solely on witness testimony for this. If that failed, the KGB would need to verify everything, and that would take time.

At least he felt vindicated in insisting that the meeting not be televised – and that _all_ of the Triumvirate had agreed not broadcast it. If this were public, there would have been questions and panic the moment the stream cut. The public had no idea this was happening, and that was preferable. _If_ everything had gone well, it would have aired on the nightly news as if it were live, he would have given a speech, and all would be well.

Now, things would have to be adjusted.

“[What happens,]” Luka asked as discussion in the cabinet continued, leaning over to him, speaking quietly into his ear. “[If there was an attack.]”

Clovis rubbed his chin, thinking on the footage he’d seen before it had cut. “[I’ve considered that. I don’t know that is the case. The feed cut out at a rather benign moment. One could even say diplomatic. It wasn’t as though the Ghosts started shooting. I am not leaping to a worst-case scenario quite yet.]”

“[There have been _no_ transmissions or contact from the ARES crafts,]” Luka noted. “[I do not like it.]”

Clovis grunted. _Join the club. _“[The alien even said it terraformed Mars to show it’s good intentions,]” Clovis muttered, almost to himself. “[It would be odd to bait and switch to this degree.]”

Luka raised an eyebrow. “[And you _believe_ this alien?]”

“[I operate off of tangible evidence,]” Clovis laced his fingers together. “[And the existing evidence appears to validate the alien’s intentions. If it wanted a conflict, I feel it would have started it long before now. Why bother to go through this whole show only to attack the diplomatic party which comes to meet it?]”

“[I do not know,]” Luka shrugged. “[But I believe it is a question we should start asking and answering. How long do we wait?]”

“[Give it another half hour,]” Clovis said after a moment of thought. “[Otherwise, we move forward. Unless the rest of the Triumvirate receives something. I want a call with President Quinn in that timeframe as well.]” He motioned to his aide. “[Ensure that’s set up. Now.]”

“[Of course, General Secretary!]”

Clovis leaned back, hands on his chest as he beheld the blank screen. Nothing much to do except wait, and he could afford to wait. No need to panic yet-

There was a burst of light as a humanoid-shaped hologram of light manifested above the conference table, and a millisecond later turned into a Space Marine soldier who fell directly onto the table, leaving a huge crack in it as it fell with a massive thud. Everyone around the table pushed themselves back with shouts of surprise.

The Red Guard immediately moved in front of him, and Clovis’s own hand fell to his waist, gripping a pistol, but it soon became clear that there was no danger.

To his surprise, the Space Marine was none other than Commander Calumet herself, who pulled off her helmet after she rolled off of the table, shaking her head, blinking rapidly before she realized where she was. She immediately straightened and fell into a salute. “[General Secretary!]”

He didn’t fail to note her voice was not calm. Far from it. He waved the Red Guard to stand down, many questions running through his mind. “[Commander. Correct me if I’m wrong, but you’re supposed to be on Mars, yes?]”

“[I was supposed to be,]” she answered, eyes darting around the room. “[But there have been complications. We have a problem.]”

Clovis resisted a sigh. _Why must there always be a problem. _“[Elaborate.]”

She pursed her lips. “[I believe the alien has compromised our system. More importantly, I do not think it is here to help us. Not truly.]”

“[The feeds cut out nearly twenty minutes ago,]” Clovis told her, nodding to the screens. “[We have not heard what happened. Why did the alien – I presume – teleport you here?]”

“[This will take some time,]” she warned. “[If it sent me back, there are probably others.]”

“[We will take care of them,]” Clovis gestured to some of the aides to depart and presumably keep an ear to the ground regarding that, and they rushed off, with Luka stepping away to take a call. The General Secretary took his seat again, fixating on the Space Marine intently.

Time to learn what had happened.

“[Tell us what we are dealing with.]”

***

**RESISTANCE STRATEGY ROOM | TEL AVIV | ISRAEL**

It had been a turbulent, frantic, and unprecedented few months.

It was times like this when the Ayatollah considered formally retiring and leaving the Resistance in the hands of someone younger and equally as capable. The days of stress and long nights now were something he had not felt since the days after Tehran fell, and the years of slowly gathering the leaders of nations to assist in this crusade.

Ryan would be amused to hear him admit that he was, indeed, ‘getting too old for this.’

But this was a poor time to be looking for excuses and successors. That would need to be something he thought and prayed on – but later. This also assumed the alien did not cause even more upheaval, else their fight would continue for years to come. Or it would end as the Triumvirate reached a point where they could not be stopped.

The Triumvirate had their weaknesses now, but there were troubling signs that they were consolidating their power for…something. Near as Liberman had been able to determine, the actions the Triumvirate were taking were likely in place before the alien had appeared, and they happened to be continuing nonetheless.

Amjah’s suspicion that Clovis was more dangerous than assumed appeared to be coming true.

“You look troubled,” Amjah said from opposite the table, upon which was a map of the region. “Do you need rest.”

“Nay,” the Ayatollah lifted a hand. “Forgive me. I am…tired. Contemplating.”

“Aren’t we all,” Arya Burns grunted, having taken a rare and risky visit from the UK to Israel. “Point being that there isn’t much time for that right now. No offense.”

Amjah’s face hardened, but the Ayatollah waved him off. “She is right. There can be no room for further mistakes. We must face facts.”

“Yes,” Amjah looked down to the map. “The attacks are having less of an effect. It is as I feared. The slide of desensitization; an attack becomes a news cycle, then a story, then a paragraph, and finally an asterisk. Using the bombers has resulted in diminishing returns. I am refraining from continuing these methods for a time.”

“Killing people is all well and good, but it needs to have purpose,” Arya shrugged. “I’m no fanatic, but killing without point becomes easy to ignore. Do it too often, and then people will just start shrugging their shoulders and saying ‘just another suicide bombing’.”

“And yet I see no feasible alternative,” Amjah muttered. “Where _can_ we strike with the necessary impact?” He shook his head. “I wish Kane were here. He knew where the best place to strike was.”

Isaiah’s departure had indeed been a hit. Hamaza had admittedly not really appreciated the impact of the stoic man until he was gone. The Dead Cell was still operating, but most of the operations were limited in scope, and his tactical insight was no longer something that the young Quds Force Commander was able to lean on.

On his own, Amjah was struggling to break out into his own. It was a necessary test, but the Ayatollah did not want such a test to be now. The world was going to rapidly change in the coming months, and they had to do what they could _now_ before it happened. This was the wrong time to be running into growing pains.

God willing, it would be done. But with these new hardships, he was now wondering if that was the path they were supposed to walk.

“Your targets are all wrong,” Arya interjected, looking at the map closely. “Much as I know you hate to admit it, killing people isn’t accomplishing much. Random people, anyway. The economy is the actual force that should be damaged. No economy, no structure, and that leads to chaos. Supply lines, production facilities, the works. If you mess with the standard of living, people will pay attention _very_ quickly.”

She nodded upwards. “The Soviets understood that disruption leads to revolution. All they needed to do was disrupt life, and play the powerful against the citizens. And lo and behold, the people ‘won’ each time – if we ignore the KGB meddling everywhere. But you get the idea. Your suicide bombers are going to be able to hit the world a lot harder if they go after an oil refinery or steel mill. Hell, contaminate some crops or poison a well, and you’ll hit the public a lot harder.”

Amjah stroked his chin. “Kane has never suggested such methods as being the most effective.”

“Kane is very, very good at making sure killing people has impact,” Arya admitted. “For better or worse. Consider it his gift. Since it worked, I kept my mouth shut. But he’s not here, and you’re clearly having issues. I can’t tell you how to run the Quds, but based on my _own_ experience and knowledge, I’d strongly consider economic targets.”

Amjah looked to him. “Your opinion, Ayatollah?”

He folded his hands together. “I am uncertain. You are substituting one path of violence for another. Violence is not accomplishing what we wish now. Perhaps we should refrain until the path is clearer. The world is changing already, we must adapt to the way forward.”

Arya sighed, rubbing her forehead. “I swear, if you say God told you this, I’m going to call bullshit. We’re not basing our decisions about a deity who hasn’t bothered to help us out yet.”

The Ayatollah gave her a thin smile. “Our friend Isaiah managed to join one of the most critical Triumvirate expeditions on short notice, and has remained undetected, and has been given an opportunity to see this alien up close. I would not be so quick to dismiss the guiding hand of God.”

Arya rolled her eyes. “It’s more likely that I have good contacts, and that Kane is a very skilled operative. We don’t even know if he and the others are still undercover.”

“Do you really think the Triumvirate wouldn’t parade them around if they caught them?” Amjah asked. “No, they are still there, with their cover intact. Though I wish we had a means of communication.” His voice turned wistful. “I wonder what it is like, to walk the surface of the red planet.”

The Ayatollah remembered watching the footage the Triumvirate had released; of the first people to walk on Mars. Even to him, he could appreciate the gravitas of the event, and had even felt a sense of wonder at the knowledge that Man now walked beyond Earth. Many others had been similarly affected.

It seemed a distant dream, almost an illusion of what Humanity could be. Working together and celebrating this moment as a species. He heard the wonder and joy in the voices of the astronauts who had landed first on Mars. They truly believed in what they were doing; the truths of the Triumvirate’s horrors unknown to them.

Nonetheless, it had been a glimpse, and it had moved him.

“You may ask Isaiah when he returns,” Hamaza said. “I’m certain he will have opinions.”

“Probably not,” Arya’s voice turned into a fake deep voice. “‘_Ugh, so much red dust. Hate being surrounded by all these commies. Wish I could kill them. This alien better help us out._’”

Amjah chuckled. “I feel he is more sentimental than he lets on.”

“If he is, I’ve not seen it,” Arya shrugged, a faint smile on her face. “Don’t blame him one bit either.”

“Back to the matter at hand,” Amjah cleared his throat, turning back to the table when they were all interrupted by a sudden flash of white light in the corner of the room. The light was so bright that the Ayatollah closed his eyes, lifting a hand to shield his vision. When it cleared a few seconds later, he was struck by what stood in front of him.

“_Loras_?” Amjah asked incredulously, looking at the man who was in Triumvirate attire, who seemed just as confused as they were.

“Where am?” The eyes of the man widened. “Ayatollah!”

“Peace be upon you,” the Ayatollah replied automatically, eyeing him suspiciously. “How did you…arrive?”

“Where is Kane?” Arya demanded. “And the others?”

“I…I don’t know!” Loras insisted, looking around, and down at his body as if to make sure he was still there. “Kane…he was noticed by the alien. The Traveler the Ghosts called it.”

“Ghosts?”

“Machines, drones…I think,” the young man tried elaborating. “They’ve been spying on us. Everyone is nervous. I’m surprised you didn’t hear about them, rumor had it they were also on Earth.”

“Is that so,” Arya crossed her arms. “I did see the rumors, in fact. I thought it was a hoax. A Triumvirate psyop.”

“Not this time,” Loras shook his head. “This alien is…powerful. And intelligent. It spoke our languages.”

“Wait,” Amjah lifted a hand. “You said the alien, _the_ alien, _chose_ Kane?”

“Yes, yes,” he nodded vigorously. “Him and some others. To speak directly to it. None of them knew what was happening. The leader, Commander Calumet, she wasn’t happy. She tried taking them all into custody. The Ghosts stopped them, and I guess teleported a bunch of us…back.” He looked around. “I don’t know how many are still there. But I know I’m not the only one. I can’t be.”

The Ayatollah and Amjah exchanged a look. Priority number one had appeared, and change would come quickly now. The fact that they had heard nothing about this indicated that the Triumvirate was keeping it a secret for now. Their time was limited before something happened. “Sit,” the Ayatollah gestured to a chair. “Tell us what you learned.”

***

**ENIGMA-1 TARGET ZONE | MARS**

The good news – he was going to have a direct meeting with the alien. Presumably.

The bad news – there was a target now painted on him so large that he wasn’t sure how he was going to escape it.

_Thank you Traveler, very cool._

Isaiah was – ultimately - not very pleased with how events had gone. Despite the Ghosts and their benefactor kicking off Calumet and what looked like two-thirds of the entire Triumvirate force – in literal _seconds_ \- his face had been seen, and there were a few dozen people still here who now were going to be pressing him once this was all over. The cameras had been rolling and _all_ of them were going to be relentlessly analyzed by the intelligence services.

He was, in short, screwed.

Not necessarily on Mars, however. Unless there were CIA bosses who were still here – he could only hope they’d been among the ones who’d been teleported away. In that case, he could _probably_ get away with remaining an unknown – to an extent. But the chances of him being able to sneak away after this was all done were probably close to zero. This was, quite possibly, the worst-case scenario. If not worst-case, then still _bad._

_Don’t panic yet. Maybe a miracle can happen. Wouldn’t be the first time,_ he thought sardonically_._

And…if he _was_ going to be screwed, he at least wanted to know _why_ he’d been put in this situation at all.

He legitimately had no idea why the alien – the _Traveler_ – had singled him out specifically. Nor did any of the others, which was perhaps the one saving grace; everyone was too confused and everyone was in the same boat. The alien either knew what it was doing, or it did not, and either possibility screamed _bad_ to him.

It didn’t help that he’d been hearing the words the Ghosts were saying in flawless Arabic. Which definitely told him the machines were likely beaming it directly to his head, because there was no possible way that the machines were speaking Arabic to the rest of the assembled soldiers. Especially since Calumet and the others spoke English in response.

Milya had also been inexplicably chosen by the alien, and even slightly knowing someone was _slightly_ better than a group of complete strangers. He did feel slightly bad that she was probably going to be interrogated about her connection to a likely terrorist when the KGB passed along his identity to the Indians, but for once she wasn’t an intended sacrifice. It wasn’t her fault. But that wasn’t his problem right now, there was already enough to process.

He was still processing the barrage of revelations that the Ghost had revealed. Other alien life, a presumed threat to Humanity, a power which was described as creation itself, a hyper-specific requirement for ambassadors (of which _he_ was one?), and that the flying sphere was actually a body for an alien.

He certainly wasn’t clear on how that worked.

He’d resisted the urge to scream as the Ghost had quite cheerfully agreed to hand the Triumvirate advanced technology ‘for the benefit of citizens’, which told him that the Traveler was either stupid, hadn’t vetted the Triumvirate, or was intending to use them somehow.

None of those were good, though based on what he’d seen, the Triumvirate didn’t stand a chance in a military conflict.

But then the Ghost had cited Operation Silver Bullet as a reason to disallow Calumet to speak with the Traveler, which only confused him since it implied that the alien _had_ done enough vetting to know that Calumet was not someone who should _ever_ be allowed to have power and authority.

Which, incidentally, was a _fascinating_ detail to learn.

The Resistance, and himself personally had wondered who had been the individual behind the greatest massacre of workers across Europe, and now they did. Operation Silver Bullet had been an ill-fated attempt to find and root out rebels and spies in industrial centers and other labor jobs. It had, in fact, been a trap he had orchestrated himself. The culmination of months of the Dead Cell leaving enough tips and hints that the KGB were convinced that they were about to face mass workers revolutions across Europe – ones against _them_ this time.

And being the KGB, they acted first, and had convinced the General Secretary, presumably, that something had to be done. The team behind the mass disappearances and killings had never been fully revealed, protected by the State, but close to ten thousand people had been killed or disappeared during the operation, with a sloppiness that ended in a _public_ outcry.

Supposedly, everyone involved in the operation – which produced no public results – had been relieved of duty (killed in Soviet subtext), and the General Secretary had issued a personal apology to the families of the victims. Isaiah had felt very pleased at the result, although frustrated that the Soviet media spent the next month justifying and whitewashing the whole event, until it disappeared from the public consciousness.

He’d hoped that it would exploit some intra-Triumvirate friction and generate anti-Soviet sentiment, but unfortunately the Soviets were more brainwashed than the Americans, and it didn’t help that the rest of the Triumvirate media had come together with a single unifying narrative.

The Soviets learned their lesson too. The KGB wasn’t nearly as easy to manipulate these days. But he’d always assumed that everyone involved in that colossal screw-up had either been executed or banished.

Apparently, they’d been _promoted_.

Not shocking, in retrospect. No better way to prove your willingness and loyalty to the Motherland than rounding up a bunch of people who may be treasonous and torturing, then killing them. If you made mistakes, ‘oh well, better safe than sorry, thank you comrade, glory to Stalin and the Motherland.’

Isaiah grimaced. It raised the question of what _else_ Calumet had been involved in.

A question for another day. Maybe he’d ask the Traveler, since she seemed to know a bit about her.

The five of them were being guided – or herded – towards the Traveler itself. The trio of those he didn’t know were talking amongst themselves, Milya was chatting with one of the Ghosts off to the side, and he was furiously trying to plot a path out of this situation. His cover was blown, or soon would be, but that wouldn’t necessarily be the first time.

It was, however, the first time it had happened on another planet. A planet where he had no support, no resources, and no true escape. Which in the most basic of terms was _‘a problem’._

He looked to the nearest Ghost, which was hovering at shoulder-level beside him, figuring he might be able to pump it for some information. “[So where are we going?]”

“[To the Traveler,]” the Ghost said, surprising him because it spoke with a _female_ voice. A robotic one, as the other one had done, but it was still different.

“[Your voice is different,]” he shot a suspicious glance at it.

“[I adapt my personality to individuals I interact directly with,]” it – _she_ – said. “[You prefer a female person as your interpersonal ideal.]”

The Ghosts didn’t seem to really care about hiding insinuations which indicated highly invasive methods of personal data collection. The Ghost wasn’t entirely _wrong_ either, but he was immediately put on guard both by the change and admission. “[If we’re going _to_ the Traveler, I assume you mean _in_ the Traveler?]”

The fins of the Ghost spun. “[Technically, yes.]”

He nodded towards it. “[So why can’t she do teleport us in now?]”

It floated up to eye level, almost appraising him with concern. “[If I did not know better, I would say you were nervous.]”

Was the Ghost being cheeky with him? Isaiah raised an eyebrow, not failing to note it had not answered his question. “[Take a moment to think about _why_ I might be concerned at speaking with a previously unknown alien intelligence – with no previous preparation or warning. I’m not a diplomat. In fact, I’m the _last_ person you want as a diplomat.]”

“[The Traveler has chosen you,]” the Ghost bobbed as if in a shrug. “[Her reasons will be apparent in due time. It is an honor to be chosen to represent the Traveler.]”

“[But I don’t _want_ that,]” he insisted with a sigh. “[You have no idea who I am, do you?]”

The fins spun again. “[Did you not want to make your own case to the Traveler? To speak directly to her?]”

Isaiah went cold, and he almost stumbled while he processed what the Ghost had said. That _was_, in fact, something he’d wanted to do – not in this exact scenario, mind you, but the alien should _not_ have known that at all. He appraised the Ghost again more skeptically, some pieces clicking into place, and it now seemed more likely that he definitely_ hadn’t_ been selected at random – or without reason. He looked briefly to the others who’d been chosen, taking a much closer look.

It struck him so fast he was irritated with himself that he hadn’t noticed earlier. The woman, Liana. An American. Fang Sov. Chinese. Milya. Indian. Valentin. Soviet. One person per Triumvirate member. And then there was him, who broke up the pattern unless the truth was known.

He was of the Resistance.

Isaiah slowly looked back to the Ghost, who emitted an electronic raspberry, angling itself and looking almost knowingly down at him. _Well then, this is an interesting turn of events._ Now it seemed clear that there _was_ some kind of method the Traveler had employed to choose it’s ambassadors – and it was one where he _thought_ he might be able to figure it out.

The Traveler had to be aware of the predicament facing him if she knew who he really was – and perhaps had a plan to help him. A long shot – which he was still not counting on – but it seemed more obvious now that it knew more than it was telling – and that his chances of getting out of this were slightly higher. That he still had his identity (mostly) intact was good. Maybe he was giving too much credit to the alien.

But perhaps not.

So he suspected he knew why he was chosen. He was to take whatever message the Traveler had back to the Resistance. But out of all the Triumvirate soldiers and staff here, these four people had been chosen to take messages back to their respective governments. And they _didn’t_ seem to be of the officer corps or leadership.

There was a reason they had been singled out.

It would not be a bad idea to try and determine why.

Milya had moved closer to him as they kept walking. “I didn’t know you spoke Arabic.”

Normally that she’d noticed that would be something he would consider a horrific slip-up, but considering the circumstances it was a minimal consequence at worst, and he prepared for contingencies. “CIA, remember. They prefer agents to be multi-lingual.”

“Ah, I see,” she nodded, accepting it remarkably easily. So easy to exploit gaps in civilian knowledge. “You speak it very well.”

“[Do you speak it?]” He inquired. If she’d heard the conversation, _that_ might be more of an issue.

“[A little,]” she answered with a halting uncertainty and stilted pronunciation of a speaker who knew a little, but nowhere near fluent. Good. Probably not enough to follow along, especially since she’d been distracted talking to her own Ghost – which was incidentally bobbing around her shoulder.

He indicated it. “I see you made friends.”

“He’s friendly,” she nodded to it. “As it turns out, most of my theories on the alien symbols were wrong. Go figure. This should be a _fascinating_ experience.” She glanced up. “Still, I don’t know what it wants with us specifically. I was ready to be a negotiator, but since it knows our languages…” she shrugged.

_Oh, you might figure it out soon enough._ He thought. _But hopefully not until I’m long gone._

“I guess we’ll see,” he said.

“[Hold,]” the leading Ghost said – which had been hanging around close to the Soviet. “[You will be speaking to the Traveler now.]” The fins spun and inclined themselves as the Ghost indicated a notable pause. “[I will warn you, it may be…disorienting.]”

“What do you mean by that?” The Space Force Infantry – Liana - asked.

“[It is difficult to explain,]” the Ghost said, almost haltingly. “[But do not be concerned. It is normal.]”

Above them, the Traveler began glowing, a shining white sphere surrounded by a golden halo. He felt the Light envelop him, and the last thing he saw was a white flash, and the five of them vanished from the surface of the red planet, with the onlookers wondering where they had gone.

And if they would see them again.

***

TO BE CONTINUED IN **CHAPTER V | WARNING**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the delay in getting this out. A combination of the pandemic and my own technical issues delayed things significantly on my end. The good news is that the next chapter should not have nearly as long of a wait. Everyone please stay healthy and safe.
> 
> I don't know if I've posted this here, but I do have a Discord server for this story and others I write: https://discord.gg/MzgHPYX
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	7. Chapter V | Warning

** ACT I | THE TYRANT’S MALEVOLENCE**

***

**CHAPTER V | WARNING**

***

**THE TRAVELER**

The first element Valentin´s eyes could process was the light.

Bright. _So _bright.

To see in front of one-self was one of the many small luxuries a person could enjoy during the day to day. Always taken for granted, but never its absence considered. An absence which Valentin panickedly began to notice.

Had he gone blind? He could feel his arms in front of him. He could feel the movement of his fingers and the weight under his two feet.

And yet he could not see.

Anything but the maddening, _absolute_ white his eyes were assaulted with, one eternal second after the next.

Despite the feeling of an uncompromising searchlight being pointed straight at his corneas, Valentin had to admit that the rest of the sensations coursing through his body were not entirely….unpleasant.

“[One moment,]” the Ghost interrupted his fast forming thoughts. Valentin could hear the machine initiate a procedure he would not torture his brain with by trying to comprehend. He closed his eyes, silently wishing for the drone to speed up what it was doing.

As the searchlights still penetrated his shut eyelids, Valentin sought to distract himself by focusing on the pleasant sensations which annoyingly did not grace his exhausted oculi.

The light felt tangible against his form. Physical. A thin, cloudy sheet enveloping his body. The fluffiest pillows pressing softly against him, vigilant in their unrequested mission to erase all discomfort from his tense muscles and straining shoulders.

_Warmth_.

A drowsy child who sat besides a fireplace, seeking refuge from the harsh bite of winter frost which assailed the world outside. A hard working family, who had to sometimes forego the modern comforts of electric heating due to the sword of economic hardship which constantly hung over the heads of ever-concerned parents.

Stories which were shared beside a wood fed fire, gifting the comforts of nostalgia and the hopes of tomorrow to a wide eyed child. A father, who would gladly retell the same stories as many times as the child needed, as many times as the child felt right, and would lull the prized son to innocent sleep. Protected; _separated_ from the truths of a harsh and cold world outside these doors.

Valentin caught his mind drifting. Such a simple word.

_Warmth._

A mundane collection of letters, to open the floodgates to eager memories and emotions.

Doors to his heart which for long had been barred shut. Not a product of callousness, not the bounties of regret, but simple practicality and circumstance.

His friends, he could consider family, and yet his trust in them would never be the same. Not through any fault of their own, but such had been determined by the blind eyes of fate.

They were American and Chinese. They were _Triumvirate_.

Not Soviet.

The barriers and divisions, _suspicions_ of foreigners, nurtured within his subconscious by the red star of State would never be forgotten. Could never be forgotten. Yet he knew he could trust his friends. Ever caring, eager Liana, ever understanding, patient Fang.

But could the same be said about the people they knowingly and unknowingly brought to his existence?

There were lines he dared not cross, lest he attract the gaze of the Kremlin. The uncompromising scrutiny of the hammer and sickle.

A smart Soviet greets the world with a smile, with a hand ever resting on his weapon.

_Not that this matters anymore._

The unnatural soothing, which the incomprehensible light elicited all over his body, could not calm the storm of thoughts which gathered inside the as-of-yet undefiled privacy of his mind.

If he survived this ordeal, his own - _prepared -_ suite inside the Lubyanka was all he could look forward to. The privilege granted by a considerate KGB, which assuredly could not _wait_ for their next esteemed guest to arrive.

Curiously, the very same possibility, which had terrorized the sleep of many Soviets loyal and disloyal alike, proved to be liberating.

If his fate was already decided, what worry should he have? Why fear the light which blinded, and yet comforted?

Why focus on the cold which awaited, over the warmth which had long arrived?

“[There we go! You may open your eyes. Though looking up is not advised,]” the machine stated, interrupting the long conversation he enjoyed with himself.

His first instinct was to hesitate at following the suggestions of an entity as unknown as it was, before hindsight refocused his decisions. This Ghost _had_ just effortlessly teleported half of the Triumvirate´s Expeditionary Force back to Earth.

Perhaps it was prudent to do as it said.

He opened his eyes. Half of him had wished he had not done so, the other half awestruck at the sight before them.

He instantaneously understood that what they were experiencing was not meant for mortal eyes or mortal minds. It was difficult to comprehend and grasp in its entirety. Was he looking at a city center? _Something_ which resembled a city center? Had he snapped, and his scurrying mind scrambled to settle upon a shape, a context he could vaguely recognize?

He tried to focus on the shapes. On the squares he could see in the distance. Perfect at a first glance. Precise, calculated, chiseled. And yet flowing, moving, _adjusting_. Contradictions which fought for supremacy over the claim to his understanding, and yet harmonious as he beheld them.

_Squares, within squares, within cubes, within cubes, within squares._

_Growing. Always grows, always grows, always grows, always changes._

He stopped staring, lest his sanity start to weave and dance like the perfect imperfections on the horizon.

His eyes were not the only senses to inquire to his brain for answers to the enigma surrounding them. He heard noise.

Droning.

A long, slow whisper.

Voices he could hear, encoded into the mathematical equations behind the very concept of a soundwave.

_Voices, which squish and stretch Truth as they please, as a child does with putty. Which delight in adding Truth´s wordless screams into the chorus which furthered torments itself._

Voices, awakening directives purposely carved in cursive into the strands of his DNA.

_Voices which establish the new limits of Logic, as current axioms prove too simple, to uninteresting. And Logic agrees, and Logic joins the improvised dance, for too long have his thirteen feet remained unused._

Voices, inviting the atoms which made his flesh into a nice afternoon of tea, to catch up on old memories and reminisce on the times before they were asked to form his body.

_Voices that see newborn universes yawn, where shining bright planets orbit, pulled beyond by the Aria of Making. By a Song of Life, whose rhythms and truths hidden within each note direct the stars to spin and roll. Where they roll, their purpose unheeded, without meaning, lustre or names._

Voices, comforting the Andromeda Galaxy on their expecting child, and advising the avoidance of alcoholic beverages during pregnancy.

_Voices that beckon Sanity to retire back to his home. His gifts declined, his advances protested. An obstacle accidentally left on the astral bridge between dimensions, by the strawberry-skinned ferryman who added wheels to his boat. _

Voices, musing on the modern and chic fashion of Time unvisited neighbors have adopted.

_Voices that chastise the cartoonist, hunched over his desk after long hours of work. For this reality lacks color, lacks an overarching theme to separate it from the rest pieces of crumpled paper which forlorny lay at the bottom of the bin. Awaiting the shredder. _

Voices, laughing as cause and effect knock on a front door, demanding respect that has scarcely been earned.

_Is he going mad?_

Mercifully, the droning eventually became white noise. Always present, but easy enough to ignore.

_Maybe he has snapped._

As his mind struggles, he beholds even more shapes and sights which kindly let physics know her services are no longer required.

He can see buildings. Some, mockeries to the puny sizes of the tallest skyscrapers of Earth. Others, no bigger than familiar shacks. Sometimes, the buildings decide that solid mass is a suitable look to wear. When he looks away for just a split second and looks back, he can see that the fickle buildings prefer to be liquids. Sometimes gas, sometimes all three.

Sometimes the buildings like the spots where they are built, sometimes they decide to relocate.

He feels faint, as he watches a skyscraper bend like an arm. A perfect ninety degree angle. And then it decides to return to its upright position. It speaks to its neighbor, asking which form is more appropriate, and happy with the well-thought answer, decides to bend again.

The buildings shine like lighthouses. Searchlights assaulting his corneas once more. He makes out some carved from condensed brightness, others molded from melted clouds.

The buildings make forests. Spires that rise as far as his poor eyes can see. Up ahead, he sees a street. No, two streets. Or three? Four? _Five, six, seven, eight, nine ten, eleven, twelve-_

Each way he looks, the streets multiply. And yet he knows they all reach the same destination.

_How does he know they reach the same destination?_

He wants to scream, as every time he blinks the city shifts. The architecture dances, the streets sing in a rhythm that rises high and higher, before dropping low and lower. The streets gossip between themselves in hushed tones he can still hear, wondering which sight better suits the visitor which puzzlingly walks with only two legs. They giggle as his two eyes blink. If only he had fifteen, he could appreciate what the streets want him to see.

And yet they mold to his battered psyche. As if trying to be accommodating.

It should be impossible.

_But have we really analyzed the concept of impossible? What is impossible? A collection of letters? A word which conveys a concept? A reverse concept? A concept which we do not think as a concept? That which is and yet is not? Can Man, in his arrogance, dare lay claim to say what is and cannot? Is the term not an inherent paradox? _

A hand grips his arm. He breathes heavily, for that hand is a raft he will hold on to, even if its owner is not aware of his plight.

He looks to his side to see Liana gripping his arm tightly. “Sorry,” she says, in a tight voice which reverberates and is muffled under the waters of the ever-present white noise, her head as light as the clouds under their feet. “I feel like I’m going to fall. There’s so much…”

He nods mutely, empathetically. He cannot make out her body entirely, the light ironically obscuring many things around him. He can still notice a shimmering barrier enveloping her form, and his likely as well. Protection from the Ghosts, most likely.

And….now that she mentions the floor, he can feel it clearly too. The floor shifted underneath them, unsure if it was a solid or a liquid. Choosing one, and then changing to the other, and then back to the first in the matter of seconds.

_Of course! Walking is yet another luxury that he is to be deprived of during this time of pilgrimage. _

“Don't worry,” he tries to comfort her, his own voice he felt inside his throat, for his ears had been borrowed by the mischievous whispers inside his head ; his attempted confidence a comedy only his screaming mind can truly appreciate. “Just don't look down”.

“The squares…”

“I know. Don’t look down.”

_Don’t look down._

Valentin swallowed. “What…what do you see?”

“Glass. Clouds. Buildings. _Light_. So much light. Paths. Too many paths. It doesn’t make sense. I can’t…”

“Hey, come here,” he pulled her into an awkward, but tight embrace. “Just close your eyes. Don’t look at everything. Don’t look at everything.”

He closed his eyes too.

_And he could still see the squares seared under his eyelids, inside squares inside cubes inside squares inside cubes inside cubes inside squares._

They both found mutual comfort inside that embrace which lasted minutes. Or hours? What was time, but another law to be shown the door inside this sphere?

Eventually, they both would separate. Deep breaths the only pause on the road to lunacy they all walked. Despite the Ghost´s warnings, Valentin decided to look up. Perhaps, respite from the shifting city of resplendent alabaster which patiently waited for his gaze to return.

And up he looked.

_And down he looked back a second later._

_For the city crawled up impossible angles above him. It hung to the insides of the sphere, scaling the curvature. Shifting and molding as it coated every inch of the shell of the alien he could never hope to understand. And the city stretched into the white abyss above him. Stretched until the ends of time and the limits of causality. _

_Stretched, as the buildings grew and buildings formed. _

_Circles, inside squares, inside circles, inside squares inside squares inside circles inside squares._

_Grows, grows, grows, always grows._

_growsgrowsgrowsgrowsgardengrowsgrowsgrowsgrows_

Valentin panted as he looked down once more, down into the ground which playfully cycled through all the states of matter, rendering balanced footing impossible.

He was losing his mind. He felt the insides of his skull dance and shift to the chorus of the infinite city above and beyond him.

A voice thankfully provided sucor before he silently sunk to depths a sane man could not explore while remaining as he was.

Before he inquired to truths and realities he felt staring at his eyes from within the buildings and shacks.

Before he gave in to the light, and let it burn away his body and liberate his mind to concepts higher than the third dimension of existence and physicality.

He was but a drawing on a sheet of paper, unaware of many axes of direction, but he only had to stand up from the paper and grasp the hand which held the pencil. A hand which he could feel perched above his head, descending from the infinite of the sphere.

_Reaching out._

_Take the hand._

Yet he saw nothing.

_Stop yourself._

_Focus on your friends, ignore what knocks the doors to your mind._

With great effort, he did. He focused on Fang, his friend regaining enough control to speak; hollow and muted as his voice was.

“This place is…something…” Fang said slowly. “I don’t know if I like it or want to blow it up.”

“I alternate between wanting to look at everything and wanting to shoot myself to make it stop,” Valentin shrugged, carefully not to look up once again. “This place is fucked.”

“Agreed,” Fang shot a look over to the side. “Those two seem to be managing a bit better.”

Valentin looked over to where Fang’s head was tilted. Milya, the linguist, and the other CIA man were talking. He was careful to avoid staring at the floors or the buildings, he focused on their faces.

What was his name? “Jacob Milton”. Right. Something about the man seemed profoundly _off_ – and it wasn’t just the fact that he was CIA and thus, a spook. The CIA was nearly as terrifying as the KGB, their reputations coating the very letters of both acronyms in dread. Words which hung over Soviet and American citizens alike, the invisible watchers waiting for deviance or missteps before being brought down onto the unsuspecting.

But there was something else about this man which unsettled him.

Out of all of them, he clearly was handling the unfathomable sights best. Even Milya, a scholar whose mind he imagined could untangle at least _some_ of the mysteries and contradictions submerging them like the deepest of oceans, was only daring to look at the buildings. Not up, toward the infinite, nor down, into the invitations of the dancing currents.

This Jacob, though dared to stare into the infinite. He politely accepted the waltz of the rivers, and he held casual conversations with the squares and the circles. He could stand from the page he had been drawn on, and shake the hand which nestled on the blinding abyss above their heads.

His head ferried his eyes as they washed all over the knowing unknown of the growing city. Of the alabaster forest.

And when he witnessed all, he looked again. And again. And then he looked forward, ready to press on to an unseen destination. An ever moving goal.

This man boasted superhuman mental fortitude.

_Or perhaps he had come to the logical conclusion he flirted with so many times._

_To give in to the light. To give in to the chorus which whispered facts and lies. Invitations to decipher which was which. _

_And give in he did. And so he could stare into the infinite, and pinpoint its end._

Or maybe what he saw was different from what coursed through Valentin´s mind.

Either way, he did not trust this man. 

“Well,” Valentin’s voice sounded dry. Or perhaps that was just a side effect of the whispers which had made a home of his skull and rested on top his cushy brain. “Should we move forward?” He was unsure of what _forward _even meant in a realm where the endless grows in two directions.

“Let’s convene first,” Jacob said, lifting a hand and striding over. Yes, there was something off about him. Even with his muted voice, he spoke like a man with experience, with capability for command, with control over all situations he found himself in. And oddly, he didn’t have a strong American accent…in fact it was as though he didn’t have one at all.

“I want to make sure we’re all seeing the same things,” “Jacob” said.

“Where did the Ghosts go?” Liana asked.

“Probably watching us invisibly,” “Jacob” said dismissively. “They’ll come out when they want to. Milya has a theory.”

“Do tell,” Valentin looked to the linguist. “Please explain this madness.”

“Right,” she cleared her throat, blinking a few times. “This…place…if we want to use that term, is impossible to fully define.”

He snorted, almost wanting to burst out laughing. “What a _brilliant _observation.”

“Cut the sarcasm,” she raised an eyebrow. “Simply put – this place conforms to our own minds. We think in a three-dimensional space. We think in obvious terms. We know what is familiar. Roads. Buildings. We’re all seeing these things, right? Or some approximation?”

All of them nodded. “But there are obviously things which are tangibly _wrong_ with them in ways we can’t process properly,” she added. “Remember this is a paracausal entity – by definition it _cannot _be normal.”

“And what are we supposed to do with this?” Fang asked, sounding like his teeth were clenched. “Ask it to fix itself?”

“I don’t think it _can_ fix itself,” Milya said. “At least…not in the way you’re wanting it to.”

“Wonderful,” he could imagine Fang closing his eyes in mock exasperation. “So what do we do now?”

“Let’s move forward,” Valentin repeated. “We’re not doing any good standing here.”

“I hate this,” Liana muttered. “I’m going to have to look forward.”

“Just focus straight ahead,” he told her, taking her hand. “Focus straight ahead.”

They walked forward, down streets which took a liking to the texture of clouds. The impossible made possible teased the periphery of his vision. The infinite called, the long slow whisper.

_Just look. Look at what it has made for you. Look at the buildings it carves. Look at the shapes it grows. Do not be shy, do not condemn it, for this is what the inside of your head looks like now. Is it not?_

He hoped Liana took his advice, for he was struggling to follow it.

He could not bear it anymore. He _had _to look.

_Just once._

And his eyes moved just one time. It was just one time, but the infinite happily obliged his involuntary wishes.

No matter where he looked, a new path was before him. Roads collided, joined, and split apart, yet seemed to flow into a cohesive whole that made his poor brain want to shut down.

_The roads grow. The buildings grow. The squares and the circles grow._

_Allgrowsgrowsgrowsgrowsallgrowsgrowsgrowsgrows_

His legs moved forward, following the group, but his mind spun; _twisted_.

As he walked, he could notice the infinite carve new sights all around him. The hand which held that pencil decided to add new creations to the ever expanding page of reality it used as canvas.

Statues rose from the cloudy ground, chiseled from the bottled radiance of a healthy sun. Figures he could make out in that light not meant for flesh eyes. They were giants, looking down upon his small form. His fragile form. They all varied, from subtle insectoids to titanic bipeds. He could see tendrils, wings, mandibles, jaws.

_Variance_

They bore biologies familiar to Earth. They bore biologies which would make a scientist burn titles and begin studying all over again. They bore biologies alien and familiar, far beyond the possible and close enough to the real.

_Variance_

They terrified him, and yet their stature marked them not as conquerors. Champions, which towered over visitors never meant to witness their immortalized forms. Proud, eternal, radiant.

Who were they? Efigies to others before? To others who had walked the growing city in times long past and forgotten?

Tributes? To what concept?

**_Ad Victoriam_**_,_ whispered the chorus which still followed his every step. Which drank his every thought.

The words filled him with resolve. A fire which came from nowhere. A courage which felt inhuman. A steel which the shambling wreck he was but mere moments before was unworthy of. He looked back at the colossi which stood at attention before the visitors. He swore he saw their heads nod, their eyes burning with the intensity of a white hot forge. Measuring him. _Accepting him._

_The chorus inside his mind shifted. The words were now clear. A chant which slowly intensified. A storm which brewed inside his soul. Warriors beckoned ahead, while he could feel salutes behind his back._

_The strain on his mind began to ease. He could look at the infinite without fear. There was so much he could understand, and in time he could try. The fire fueled him, dared him to look at his surroundings. Not as a mewling puppy, but as a daring explorer. _

_And he dared to look, at the city which grows to eternity. The wild forest, tamed. The architecture stable, planned, magnificient._

_And he dared to look at the nauseating floor below him. The inmaterial roads now polished silver. Strong, durable, proud._

_And he dared to look, at the resplendent abyss above his head, where his sanity had almost fallen to many times. The abyss which now held a being. A being he could not understand. A being he felt trust toward. A being he could not see, and would burn his eyes should he try._

_A being he could feel the champions behind and beside him proudly see. As their eyes revealed the crucible of their souls. A crucible which had burned many times. A crucible which produced the sternest armor, unyielding iron and sharpened swords. Burned in that crucible, they stared into the being above, and they did not flinch, they did not cower, they did not singe._

_One day, he would stare at that being too. And his gaze would not stray. _

_One day, his statue would stand proud alongside colossi brothers and sisters._

_Was this why he was brought to the Traveler?_

_To be reshaped? To be remade?_

As Valentin mused upon such revelations, he unknowingly quickened his pace. He led the way for the others now, Liana no longer holding his hand, but trailing closely behind him nonetheless. His sudden burst of energy emboldened the others, as they strode toward an unseen and yet felt destination.

The Ghost materialized in front of them. In front of him. “[Your minds appear to have sufficiently transitioned to the interior! We are pleased you have adapted so quickly.]”

As the machine uttered these words, its single blue eye fixated on Valentin's helmeted face. 

A knowing gaze washed over his revitalized face, his sharpened eyes. The Ghost´s subtly nodded, understanding, _satisfied_.

The machine waited for his inquiry. Not the nervous question of a scared Human thrust upon something he was not meant to see, but the confident inquisition of one ready for his destiny.

“Take us to the Traveler,” Valentin expressed. He was ready to meet this entity, ready to hear its message. The light which had covered his body throughout the expedition now felt natural. An extension of his mind and body. He could not command it yet, but he could feel its flow through his body and mind, he could hear its aria intangible. He understood what the whispers were, alien tongues whose words bent into the known.

The Ghost´s gaze met the intensity of his command. Not in contempt or offended disrespect, but in the battlefield of equals. The machine responded well to his newfound strength.

Valentin could tell the others were confused by his sudden change in demeanor. Fang cocked his head in silent appraisal, while Liana seemed to look upon him in a new light. Even “Jacob” gave him a silent, deferential not, followed by Milya. Perhaps they had not heard the call of the champions behind them. Perhaps they had not heard the whispers so clearly as he had. The fire in them not yet awakened. The infinite had not reforged their spirits.

_It would, this he knew. In due time, in its due course._

_The Light always finds a way._

The Ghost bobbed, almost in acknowledgement of his private belief.

A bond he could feel begin to form with the machine. A bond he did not fully understand, as he did many things, but a bond which felt _right._ A bond which both machine and man fully welcomed, as he saw the Ghost float to his shoulder and stay within his orbit. It’s fins spun, as the drone expressed joy in its own unique way.

“[Yes. You will be taken to Her. It will start now. Watch and listen. Do not worry. You will know what it means,]” the Ghost answered. The will of a leader behind the synthesized voice of the machine.

Before any of them could say anything, the city of light vanished, and they were plunged into complete darkness.

***

**THE TRAVELER**

A silent field awaited its visitors.

No - not a field.

A garden.

Valentin´s eyes were not capable of witnessing the end of the prairie before them. The light was gone, in its place, ephemeral aurora. The sky of this garden transcended the word “beauty”. The emerald hue of the aurora provided a welcoming partner to the nebulas and stars in naked display over the cloudless sky. It was neither night nor day, it was neither depressingly gloomy nor oppressively bright.

_Balance_

Expertly woven between the nebulas and planets, he could see inky strands and tendrils of black smoke. The miasma did not choke the skies; did not hamper breath or jealously dim colors. Instead, it contrasted the beauty of the jewels above. Obsidian to diamonds, the smoke wrapped itself around welcoming stars, glad to be appreciated. Glad to be let shine.

_The Infinite_

Yes, this is what this was. That word which had tormented him so inside the shell. That word which now rang with delightful clarity inside his ever seeing ego.

The painting spoke without words, the canvas of this garden effortlessly conveyed a meaning so many mortals had struggled to define. The word came to him naturally, the whispers which had grown subdued, nearly indistinguishable, so much are they in harmonious accord with his thoughts.

The Infinite, as he instinctively knew that to search for a border to this prairie would prove fruitless.

For the Garden always grew. Like the city of Light, it always grew.

_To Perpetuity_

In all directions, it grew.

His thoughts fertilize the very air. He wonders what fruits grow in this rich soil. What bounties feed the realities which extend from the roots of the tree of silver wings which he knows stands at the center of this garden.

He does not stop to ponder on the ideas which sprout on the tilled ground his mind has proven to be. He does not question knowledge he could not possibly be familiar with, and yet the voices whisper into his ear.

His gaze drinks as he beholds the garden, the crops he cultivates inside his mind need be watered.

His eyes wash over flowers.

The garden grows, and so the flowers grow.

Grow in all directions.

But not all grow under the same privileges.

Some had sections of the soil carefully prepared. They thrived, as they were lovingly watered, lovingly cared for. They towered in prepared rows, and yet their shapes were the same. Their colors, impressive, but unvaried.

_Uniform in Order_

_Predestined in Law_

Under the efficiency of simplicity, they prospered. They grew strong, unmatched. The conditions they were provided, more than sufficient. The rules of a game, the Law of the Garden, unchanged; well suited for them.

Others he saw struggling to take root amongst jagged rocks and flooded soil. Their shapes frail, yet varied. Their unopened buds each held different shapes, number of leaves. Through their sickly pallor, he saw the hint of beautiful mixtures of color and texture.

_Doomed under Order_

_Condemned under Law_

They would never blossom, for they were never given a chance to begin with.

Myopic parasites nibbled torturously at their roots. Thorns choked their stems and kept the sunlight from the starved. Weeds greedily stole the rain from the parched.

These condemned flowers, Valentin realized, were far greater in number than those which triumphed in carefully tended patches. The caretaker of this garden perhaps did not mind, he mused.

The silence of the voices gave way to the bitter tang of regret. Nausea grew within him the longer he stood, as he witnessed the sad fate of these flowers. His balance faltered as he beheld them weep ichor. Sometimes infectious yellow, sometimes the bile of green, sometimes coppery crimson.

And he watched them wither, slowly die.

Helplessly.

For he could not reach out to them to save them.

_Predestined_

_All are predestined_

Why did the Infinite play by such rules? Why could they all not prosper? There was plenty of soil, there was plenty of water.

And it would never be insufficient.

For the garden always grew.

_All under Law_

_All in service of Order_

The thought made him frustrated. Angry.

_Sad_.

He was pulled from his brooding, as a small creature scurried in front of his boots. A small insect, he thought at first. Ruby, sapphire, emerald, and alabaster carapaces, with hides and scales in equal variance of color. The air shimmered slightly around the small insects, and he decided to take a closer look at them.

No, they were not insects.

They seemed almost like lizards. Shy geckoes.

Or perhaps dragon was the word to use, if the billowing wings accompanying their four legs and scales that overlapped over their hides were any indication.

The similarities ended as soon as their bulbous heads opened. Petals of a rose unfurling into four unpleasant flaps. Spidery eyes looked out to him, copious in their number, symmetrical in their placement.

No fire erupted from within their guts, but azure plasma, plucked straight out of the harshest quasar.

_Spawn of the Womb of Starlight_

_This Order shall be your master_

_To raise or raze_

_Your choice is predestined_

_O Children Mine_

Without prompting, the dragons fled as quickly as their tiny legs allowed and wings permitted.

The air turned sharp. Deadly, as a steel edge.

A figure walked from the stretching horizon. The voices feared the being. Every step it took elicited a primal dread ingrained in all lifeforms. The fear of the hunt, of a predator stalking in the night. Of unknown horrors born of imagination in the deepest haunts of the mind.

The figure drew closer. It took its time stopping at each patch of flowers. It did not mind the visitors which stared at its work. The voices grew restless. He could feel their desire to rip through his skull and escape the march of this being, this caretaker. Deeply hidden beneath the terror, however, he felt a puzzling fury. An anger toward it which transcended simple hatred or disagreement.

It was a loathing clad in layers of meaning. Eons spent fermenting; festering. Almost overpowering the disarming dread, such was the intensity.

The being was now close enough for observation. It had the form of a man, but Valentin could only make out a silhouette. It was like looking at a shadow, and trying to guess the features of that which produced it.

The Night was its mantle, and its armor was the Void. Its presence reminded him of nights when he stared up into the sky, trying to find stars. On very rare nights, the sky would simply be an inky sea, devoid of all guests, lacking in islands.

He had always been uncomfortable after those nights, pondering on the _emptiness_ which surrounded the small planet he called home. Even when he did see stars, he knew they were unfathomable distances away, and he would never see them truly, and neither would they him.

That same emptiness seeped from the figure, polluting his psyche as oil drowns fish.

The figure was not Infinite. It was the opposite.

_The End_

It lacked the growth of the Light. It lacked the incomprehensible shapes, the constantly birthing praxis. The _complexity_ of life unimpeded.

Its form was so easy to see. So easy to understand. It did not make his mind dance and his thoughts swim.

The longer he stared at it, the longer he realized the opposite took place.

It drained him. It made him as empty as its aura. As silent as its march.

The longer he beheld the thing, the longer he was tempted to just…

_Die_

_Expire_

To stop the _struggle_. To stop asking questions and pondering about secrets he would never find answers to anyway. To return to a simple life with simple ambitions and simple, predictable strife. To live, and to eventually die. Unremarkable, inoffensive.

_To follow the Order predestined_

_To not deviate from ingrained Law_

The thing sucked his mind and soul by merely existing. It was abhorrent. The feelings induced appalled him to his very core. Whatever this thing was, it was a disease. A cancer to be expunged.

He had to look away.

_The wilted Flower believes it can avoid the Harvest?_

As if reading Valentin´s thoughts, the wraith stopped its mute march by a patch of dying flowers just beside him and the others, whom he realized held their breath.

He could see its form in its simple **_majesty_**. The thought was forced, crudely pressed into his mind, as it gagged the voices which dropped all facets of imagined bravado as the phantom walked past Valentin.

The Night was its cape, the Nothing was its armor.

Pitch black, and polished. Sleek, mechanical. Smooth.

_Efficient._

Its armor, or perhaps its body, was segmented. Divided by sharp edges, as panels on a surface.

_Calculated._

It was the opposite of the growing city of Light. It was restrained. The tyranny of mathematics ruled over its aesthetics. The rule of angles, the sovereignty of straight lines, the divinity of logic.

A head, crowned in a million blades. Shadow made steel.

The blades, Pyramids. Rising from a head whose mind boasts unseen depths. Monoliths to the dusk, the many ends, sometimes swift, sometimes slow. _Their angular shadows, the final sunset. Their merciful silence, the final gasp._

_Harbingers to the end of eras_

_Battle made waves_

** _Salvation._ **

Under that crown sharpened by a million whetstones, a hood obscured a face.

The voices screamed desperately through their gag, begging him to not look under that hood.

Valentin´s curiosity would be his undoing.

For he peered into the Abyss.

And It stared back.

_The great Maw yawns[salivates]. It breaks its silence as it splits the layers of his mind as petals on an unfurling tulip. The Maw is wicked and soft[insatiable]. He is swallowed by the unlimited depths of its predation. He falls down its gullet, hits a million gravestones as monuments to the forgotten break his fall. He is held in the nothing, his fall eternal[endless], his screams ignored[enjoyed]_

_The oil cradles him, wraps him. It consoles[seasons]him, stretches him until his limbs are torn, and rebuilds him again. It knows him. It shows him his life[death]. It stretches his limbs once more as memories play in disarray in front of his eyes. He chokes, as thick petroleum fills his lungs until they can bear no more and burst from the pressure_

_He gurgles, as the hammer of gravity flattens his body to a paper-thin stain, as his barely recognizable organs are violently flung from out his mouth and orifices _

_The sobbing[laughing] of steel drowns the voices which urgently try to reclaim him from the leviathan´s teeth. The iron cries, as it is compressed, and stressed and compressed and stressed_

_The droning of a whale[the Deep] joins the cacophony of grinding metal. The sound cares not for the protests of his rapidly rotting brain. It drills holes through the organ, as is its right by force_

_If he cannot defend himself, if his protests are nothing but words, he will endure_

_And he endures_

_As it kills him, and then revives him, only to kill him again_

He is spit out. The phantom turns its head, its message clear.

Valentin vomits on the floor, the bite of copper and bile staining his taste.

His companions rush to his aid, unknowing of what he has suffered.

The walking Nothing turns not to see the interruption. It turns to the patch of flowers, which begged for it to forget them. To let them exist, for just a few moments more.

_All is as is meant to be_

_Order remains intact_

_The Reaping must commence_

The nightmare knelt before the flowers. They cowered, wept. They tried to escape the patch of soil where they were confined. Through the thorns, through the weeds. Their roots bound them, their stems could only bend so much.

_If only they had legs_

_If only they could run_

The thing moved its hands toward the closest tower. Its fingers, acute scissors. The tools of harvest. Shadow made steel.

_Scythes that emancipate_

_Wheat from chaff_

The fingers approached the stem of the marked flower. The sight of its approach, uncaring, silent, elicited a billion _tiny_ screams Valentin could hear and understand with horrible clarity.

Prayers, confusion, despair, hopelessness. Rebellion, defeat, executions, salting of fields.

Oppressive gravity crushed the helpless flower as the scissors approached. The ground quaked mercilessly, as the poor plant which harbored no sins or malice awaited the mercy of a clean cut. The figure´s hand approached, the phantom unaware, or apathetic, to the suffering such a simple action caused.

A miniature apocalypse.

One he could not see.

But one he could hear.

One he could _feel_.

The ebony scissors grazed the stem, preparing to cut. The flower screamed for the angular monoliths. For the final gasp, the last sunset, as the being´s lowered crown cast the shadow to which the flower would die before. One last sight, to end existence with.

Valentin could feel everything. As the screams intensified, as their hope shattered into resignation.

_Snap._

The trillion screams cut short. Their plight ceased. Forgotten.

Silence remained, as it grabbed the discarded flower, and placed it gently in a white woven basket.

_Woven of Infinity_

_In service of the Nothing_

_As is commanded_

_As is ordained_

The frenzied screams were replaced by mechanical silence. The steel laughed once more, the demonic whale droned again. The iron compressed and stretched, the repulsive howl sung by the Pyramids whose blades crowned the being. And as they sung, they rose ever slightly higher, their bases planted in that mind of all extinguishing depth.

The phantom's face subtly twitched to the other flowers, which waited their turn. They prayed for swift ends. For dignified legacies. For the mercy of uninterested murder Valentin realized this thing was feared for.

_Salvation_ was the last word he would have used to describe the monster´s work.

_Salvation for itself perhaps, _he thought, as he noticed a slight hint of _offense_ the being felt to what diverged from its supposed Order. An Order few benefitted from, itself at the top of the chain.

The being satisfied the final wishes of the awaiting flowers. Not out of respect, he concluded, but out of efficiency. To tear them, root and all, with its hands would simply be faster.

_Pluck._

No resistance is possible. No resistance is tried.

_Pluck._

In they go, into the basket. Whatever they were, erased.

_Pluck._

Pruned, should they reach for the Sky.

_Pluck._

For they cannot rebel.

_Pluck._

For they must remain what they are.

The patch was emptied with practiced speed. An engine of oblivion. A machine for pigs.

** _This is what I am._ **

The soil spreads, tilling itself, eager for the coming of new seeds. Seeds which will grow, into plants which will die. The cycle, eternal.

The growth, unending. Unceasing. Unyielding.

As everything else inside this garden.

_Upon gifted ground_

_They grow_

** _Should they plead for water._ **

** _They die._ **

_Despite our aid_

_They grow_

** _Should they seek richer soil._ **

** _They die._ **

The thing which wore a man as a suit walked to the next patch. Overwhelmed by harsh rocks. Drowned, by poisoned thorns. Satisfaction present on a face he dared not see ever again.

It knelt once more. From the black hole it cured and cut to make a belt, it produced a jar. The skittering maws stored inside made his instincts tear his face away from the sight.

Away from teeth, sharper than his own.

But he made himself see, for he had to understand.

The jar opened, and the figure dropped the wriggling black worms into the section. They were the size of his fingers, weeping black fluid and possessed only of a single mouth – one which opened similarly to that of the dragons. They burrowed into the soil, some approached the sickly flowers and began consuming, wrapping around the stalks like reptilian constrictors. Thorns, weeds, no obstacle was safe from the worms which consumed and left poison in their wake.

One worm tried to move into another section, one with healthy and tall flowers. Yet the moment it crossed the threshold, the hand of the nightmare swiped swiftly, as a shark cutting the waters around it.

It pinched the wriggling worm between two knife-fingers. It brought the wriggling parasite close to its hooded face. A thousand burning eyes stabbed the unfortunate worm´s very essence. Shattered whatever soul it still held inside. _Hatred_ was not an entirely accurate way to describe the aura which tangibly dripped from the being, viscous oil which lubricated the gears of slaughter. The worm stopped wiggling, as it realized breaking the vice was as impossible as turning time.

_Insulted. Offended_

The phantom could not understand why the worm would deviate from that which was provided. For in the garden it had already been given so much. So much, with just adherence to one simple rule asked in return.

And it had still failed.

The grip closed. Not even atoms remained, of that daring worm. Not merely destroyed, but _erased._

_Feed is offered and yet greed prevails_

_The Order shall not be disturbed_

_ Will not be changed_

_Not by Gardener, **Not by Winnower. **Not by Butterfly, **Not by Worm.**_

_Winnower._

The Darkness dressed as man.

** _A King of Old._ **

The King set the jar on the ground, and all the worms immediately scurried back to their prison, fattened by strength. The cleared patch drank nutritious slurry, spilled by hunger, regurgitated by the worms as they ate.

The soil drank, as was its share.

No more, no less.

It tilled its own surface. Spread, eager for future seeds. 

The King's march refused to cease. For the Harvest was bountiful, and the Reaping rich-fat and sweet.

Many were given to the worms, as they cleaned doomed patches with the glee of playful children. Others, healthy and strong, produced fruit which the King inspected. It left the fruit behind, the charge of another, and used its knives to cut the flowers. Petals which it took and placed into a second basket, its purpose unknown.

After his bounty was harvested, the King took the white basket, which he saw had mushed the dead flowers into compost. Compost it would deliver, its use the charge of another.

Valentin felt ill upon seeing the substance.

For that compost was made from the lost.

_That compost was enriched by screams._

_All is as it should be_

_The Order is maintained_

The King retreated into the endless horizon. Retreated, to continue the work. Down the infinite lanes of the garden.

_Finally_, Valentin thought, as he felt he could breathe again. As the gag which silenced the gentle whispers in his mind was lifted. They suggested he walk forward. “_Toward the King?_”, he inwardly inquired, his nerves incapable of calm when exposed to the thought.

The memories he endured by the monster's will fresh in his mind, and surely would be fresh in all his nights and all his sleep to come forevermore.

As if by answer, a second figure emerged from that same horizon where the King surely dwelled.

Instantaneously, the whispers cried out. Not in terror, not in dread, not in anger.

_Reverence. Nostalgia._

A woman walked from that horizon.

The Day was her mantle, the Sky was her gown.

Her skin, flawless porcelain. A marble statue brought to life, and yet soft and warm to the touch. The same color as the Traveler´s shell. The same unknown symbols engraved in her skin, refined markings which glowed as alluringly as her eyes. Eyes, expressive, dear, _soulful_. The deepest blues. Lakes of lapis, lakes which invited him for a tender dive.

_Is this you?_ He wondered.

Snowy hair fell, past her shoulders. It ondulated slowly as she walked, floated through the air as if she tread underwater. The sky which wove her gown allowed the rays of a tranquil sun to shine through her dress, as the same symbols witnessed on the Traveler´s shell dignified the blessed clothing. Golden blazonry, exalting that which did not really need be exalted.

She was otherworldly beautiful. _Perfect_, in stark contrast to the abhorrent King. The monster who hid its face, else the garden torch itself to cleanse such a memory.

His attraction to her was not..._romantic_ he would say. He felt as a child once more, looking at his mother with innocent wide eyes. For she was perfect, for she was strong, for she was his.

She walked in between the patches. Her bare feet left crystalline prints as she strode. Prints which almost made the grass greener, which almost bade it to grow ever more slightly.

Before hurrying back to what it was.

For the Order must not be disturbed.

Not by Winnower.

_Not by Gardener._

_A Queen, Eternal_

The Queen knelt before the patch reaped by worms. The soil, awaiting her attention, holes in the ground ready for her touch. Her soulful eyes betrayed blue wistfulness. Her small lips curled not into a smile. The expression tugged at his heart, as the whispers in his head whimpered pitifully.

Her expression did not befit one so beautiful. One so perfect.

The flowers of the garden, from the weak to the healthy, danced for the Queen. The healthy ones produced sweet aromas. The sickly did their best to bloom. To bloom colors none had seen before. None could see.

All to cheer the Queen. All to console the being whose walk provided respite. Respite from the savagery of the King.

It was no use.

The Queen placed two baskets on the ground. Woven by the Sky, in service of the Nothing. The first, housed seeds collected by the King. The second, contained compost.

Compost nourished by screams.

Slowly, she spread the fertilizer with one hand. Tried to hold back tears which ultimately fell from her eyes, as she felt the processed and refined death in her palm.

Slowly, she reached for the first basket. A handful of seeds, cradled in a curled palm. She covered her eyes with her other. She did not deserve to cry. For her shame was sharper than her sorrow.

_The Order you despise_

_Is an Order you render possible_

_For you are complicit_

_A cog in this design_

Golden butterflies flew around her hair. A halo of golden light, as the Queen fought not to weep. Each grabbed a seed from her hand, and dutifully carried it to its home. The butterflies whispered, the voices in his head answering back. A chorus between family, a song to life.

_All that is Reaped shall be replaced_

_Light shall follow Darkness_

_The Order will be maintained_

** _Forever._ **

The butterflies flew, many reaching their mark. Some faltered, as the thorns and the weeds had already begun to grow back. They left them on the open ground, exposed to the rising hazards around them. Others were simply dropped before they were even close to their new homes, the butterflies not willing to risk themselves. The Queen almost reflexively raised a hand, the entirety of her being wanting nothing more than to help the small creatures.

She pulled back, almost as quickly.

_The Order cannot be tampered with_

** _This, you know._ **

** _This, we accept._ **

** _This, you will follow._ **

A single butterfly attempted to fly to a different patch, a seed carried in small legs. The Queen's eyes widened, begging silently for it to come back. Raw pain was present in the woman's face, as if a son or daughter had been taken from her.

The whispers in his head called for it to come back. He joined their desperate pleas.

_Come back. _

_Please, come back._

The Queen let the butterfly reach the edges of the patch. It was almost free. The Order almost broken.

She snapped her fingers, and the butterfly fell to the ground, pitifully. The Light drained from it. The butterfly sobbed, screeched silently. Betrayed by its mother. Ended by its creator.

The Queen´s hands trembled. As she lay on the ground, defeated. Her eyes cast downward.

_Instruments of life_

_Forced to kill_

Her gaze sunk into the ground. Her eyes covered, by her hair which fell on her face.

_The Order must be maintained_

_The Order which never changes_

_Never deviates_

_What have you done, for all these ages_

_What have you become_

_Were his words so convincing_

_So sweet_

_That you became the screw_

_Holding his machine together_

Her hair floated once more. Revived divinity held each strand. Her gaze returned. Sharp. Decided. Brave.

_It can be changed_

_All is needed is a chance_

_I can convince him_

_To me, he will listen_

The Gardener of Infinity rose to her feet, as the King approached. It had watched as she worked. It had waited as she thought. It presented her with the basket of flowers, which she took and set down. The King did not understand. For it was a simple being, of simple needs and wants.

With one alabaster hand she cupped his chin. She looked at the Maw with a lover´s eyes. Attraction as clear on her face as the sunlight her smile brought to the garden.

Valentin was alarmed.

Did she not see the monster for what it was? Did she not hear the anthem of steel which violated his ears and mind once more? Did she think it returned her affection?

That it was even capable of such?

_Or perhaps she knew. Could not accept the truth. _

_And lied to herself._

_That there was good, hidden within the deep of Night._

_That there was honor, buried inside the everything of the Nothing._

_That the Maw would kiss her, instead of swallowing her whole._

_Let us try something new_

The King put a hand around her wrist and gently, but firmly moved it away.

** _The Order cannot be changed._ **

The monster´s tone was almost...reassuring. It did not condemn her. It was not an iron-cast scream. It was a charming voice, meant to sway her back to their comfort.

An act, it had to be. For he had seen the phantom´s hunger, for he had heard the scream of zettalives it practiced its appeals upon, for he smelled the smoke and oil which spewed from its engines. From organized crematoriums.

Had the Queen been fooled by such an obvious disguise? The hood hiding teeth?

The whispers inside his head radiated shame. Embarrassment.

The Queen's eyes flashed. Not in frustration, but in resolve.

She smiled a smile which could disarm anyone who witnessed its purity.

He doubted it would work on the monster, however.

He understood its drive. Its purpose.

_Its need. Its compulsion._

_It can be changed_

_If we believe it can_

The King did not answer initially. Valentin felt its confusion. It could not comprehend what changing the Order even meant. What the idea would even look like.

The nightmare was...scared, ironically.

The Order was all it had known. All it chose to know.

Voluntary slavery.

_Comfort in compliance._

_A simple existence._

** _The Order we will not change._ **

** _It is perfect._ **

** _Why alter it? _ **

** _We will not transform it._ **

** _We cannot deviate from it._ **

** _We must not modify it._ **

** _Do you not see its beauty?_ **

** _It is majestic._ **

** _Majestic._ **

The Queen closed her alabaster yes, the smile defiant to the denial of the King.

_It can be better_

_Perfect_

_I can show you_

_The Majesty of opportunity_

She stood and with a determined step, reached a section which was strangled by thorns and weeds. With a swift motion she plunged her bare hand into it, and grasped the thorns and pulled them out. Golden ichor fell and stained the section where the hooked spikes pierced her skin, yet she persisted all the same.

Tossing the thorns away, the butterflies swarmed her hand, resting upon it and eating the ichor, as the cuts were healed.

The butterflies flew down into the section of the dying Garden. Glowing with golden fire, they affixed themselves to starving and dying flowers, and injected life and Light into them. Weeds they burned with regal flares. The flowers which had looked on the verge of death mere moments ago were as vibrant and alive as those in the ordered patches.

The Queen radiated happiness and pleasure. Her smile, now a laugh, as life sprung all over the garden, to the tune of her song.

Valentin echoed it.

The flowers were no longer condemned to be food for the Worms.

The King's mask was placed. Deception, Valentin could easily tell. But in her mirth, in her liberated joy, the Queen did not realize the lies of a wolf dressed as sheep.

The King's fury was terrifying behind the mask. The steel chanted, the whale droned and swallowed the water. An endless hole swallowed all possibility of understanding the King could have felt.

The King´s engines roared, the iron sharpened, the blades hungered. The fire of the crematoriums was lit.

Ready to churn her body.

_Ready to feed her fats._

_To the furnace._

_The furnace of stars._

Ignorant of the King´s turmoil, the Queen pranced. Her feet grazed dancing grass. Her dress and her hair flowing as her laughter roared.

_She did not know the world of the King had been shattered._

_Do you see such beauty_

** _I do._ **

** _I wish to see._ **

** _Closer._ **

The King walked toward the Queen. Her back turned to its slowly approaching form. She trusted it.

_Why did she trust it?_

_When the worms fled before its steps. When the flowers recoiled to the thorns to avoid its gaze. When the strands of onyx smoke enveloped the stars above, eating their light. Breaking the balance._

_Agents to discord._

_For the balance was weakness._

_For the balance was sin._

_For she had ruined it all._

_For she brought chaos where it was unneeded._

_To its peaceful Heaven._

The Night followed the King´s march. Oil dripped from its boots. The garden shook, and wailed as its torment fueled the engines. The smog choked their cries, silenced their suffering.

For they would not alert the Queen.

The Queen still faced the healthy and vibrant half of the garden. She smiled, tears of joy feeding further growth. Growth without end.

The King's hand fell on her shoulder. She welcomed the gentle caress. Their love rekindled.

_For she did not see the angular shadow fall over her. For she did not understand that touch was a final goodbye. For she did not hear the gears turning. The obsidian guillotine prepare to fall._

The voices inside his head begged at her to turn around. To see what awaited her.

_For she could fight back._

_She was the only one who could._

_Look _

_See_

_It has been made better_

_It does not need to be condemned_

_It does not need to be predestined_

_The Worms can feed elsewhere_

_What do you think_

She turned around. She expected the garden to be ravaged, for it could be remade, once the wraith understood. Once it listened to her, just this once.

Her eyes widened, as the King's hand, falsely caressing her shoulder, closed. The unbreakable vice. The trap sprung.

She barely managed to scream, as she saw what it held on its free hand. A blade, its million edges awaiting the taste of godly flesh.

_It drew the First Knife._

The Knife plunged into the Queen's stomach, no hesitation or delay behind the strike. Golden ichor flowed from her mouth. Her eyes looked at the hooded face. She finally saw the Maw.

_Betrayal_.

The steel screeched. The machine compressed. The whale droned.

_The Deep calls._

_For maggots to infest your corpse._

The sound drowned anything else. Drowned her screams, drowned the despair of the small voices inside his head.

She moved to resist, to break free from the vice. The King again thrust swiftly, the serrated knife bore deep into her heart.

She fell to her knees, still not dead, but quickly fading.

Valentin similarly felt his life seep from holes, carved from his chest to his back.

** _What have you done._ **

The voice rolled like the thunder. It did not savagely scream, and yet the bitterness it dripped made Valentin clutch his head. The End approached. The sigh of abandoned galaxies. The Maw, building one more grave inside its gullet.

The gears roared as they turned. The air screeched as the guillotine cut.

The Queen rose, attempted to escape. She tumbled, as the machine lurched forward, practiced efficiency put to use one more time.

The King trampled through the garden. The predator, stalking prey. The engine crushed and ripped apart flowers under its wheels, the smoke of pursuit, vomited by the chimney for whom the Pyramids were bricks. Oil was expulsed from red hot exhaust ports.

The beings of the garden were in disarray. The Order broken, their limitations and roles unnecessary. The dragons began returning, with some of them fighting the worms, while others drank the oil and transformed into parasites themselves.

At last, she tripped. The automaton caught her ankle, dragged her toward itself with immense strength and unrivaled harshness. She was just a sack of meat. Waste to be disposed of. Any semblance of past love or harmony were murdered before the Queen, as a thousand glassy eyes stared into her two azure ones. The machine´s receptors were empty, focused, on the hunt, on her weakness. Hers condemning, accusatory, haunting.

The weapon descended upon the Gardener´s body. Overpowering her, as a bear mauls a fish. The million bladed knife descended upon her vital organs. Upon her heart which still defiantly beat.

_Stab_

** _What._ **

_Rip_

** _Have._ **

_Tear_

** _You._ **

_Thrust_

** _Done._ **

The Queen´s beautiful form was desecrated. Valentin clutched his head and hugged the ground as he was debilitated by the pain.

For he had felt every bone break. Every piece of flesh be torn.

Her eyes stared at the Maw. Fading. Ever reflecting truths.

The Queen muttered, for she could no longer speak.

Words which the King heard.

Words which the King loathed.

The guillotine fell. The poison chambers filled.

The angular shadows closed the curtain.

The knife came down.

Stabbed through one of her precious eyes.

** _The Order is broken._ **

The King uttered the words as the Queen expired. An ethereal scream passed from patch to patch, wilting flowers, bursting worms, skinning dragons. The butterflies, who wished for naught but the strife to cease, fell from the air. Their limp bodies spirited away by strong winds.

** _The Order is broken._ **

_The King repeated the words. The engines still roared, the oil still boiled. But the words were not submerged in anger, the words were not bloated in hate._

_Desperation._

_For what would it do now?_

_What would it become?_

_Now that such simple a purpose had been stolen?_

_Now that she had proven it obsolete?_

_Now that it was condemned to exist without aim?_

The nebulae of balance. The beautiful sight which welcomed then all into the garden was now a hurricane of repulsive ink. Thick sludge swallowed all the planets, ate the stars from within.

The storm raged. Raged with the fury of one who knows it is helpless. Ebony bullets rained down the garden, aiming to destroy all that the King and Queen had created for uncounted ages.

The King stared at the destruction it brought.

And felt nothing.

_For it was left with nothing._

_By the selfishness of the Queen_

A golden ray pierced the thick sludge which strangled the skies. A pillar of luster descended upon the King's presence. A challenge. An invitation to duel It who had never lost a battle.

_The Order means nothing_

_Banish it which thinks itself invincible_

_It which hopes itself a constant_

_Cure the disease which is no longer needed_

Three more pillars descended in front of the King. The engines roared in preparation, the wheels spun in place, eager for an equal. For it knew the Queen was the sole claimant to such a title.

_And thus dispatched her as her back was turned. As her trust proved her undoing._

_No more_

Four figures stepped from the castles of Light. Into the frontlines of destiny.

Two men, two women.

_Blackened edge_

_Rotten construct_

_Listen well_

_Xelantos, Miydaine, Vohamnkadah, Ophantius_

_They be your conquerors_

_The Eternal Legacy_

_Her Celestials_

The progeny of the Queen. Their bodies carved from the same block of marble. The Sky their shields and swords.

But where the Queen was gentle, they were fierce. And where the Queen was loving, they were glorious.

His friends had to cover their eyes before their fulgor, but Valentin´s gaze did not stray. The first of the champions, a rugged, bearded man, met his eyes. In them, he felt his spirit be consumed in the flames of the crucible. Reforged, reinforced. _Reborn._

The first champion broke the stare, and met the thousand eyes of the Maw head on. It did not cower before the eldritch sight. He stared into that which made a god scream.

And his eyes narrowed. Predator, assessing prey.

They shone with the fires of a thousand coalesced suns. The screams of a trillion killed flowers, now an anthem to war. An aria for revenge.

_For justice._

The whispers inside his head feared the King no longer. They chanted guttural growls. The rhythms of combat.

They mercilessly called for the purging of this cancer. For the end to the nightmare of the repeating cycles. The enforcement of an Order which bore no meaning, existed for no reason.

_But the whims of a thing which could not adapt_

_Feared being out evolved_

_Feared being left behind_

_No more will be tolerated_

_Enough suffering_

_Silence the laughter of steel_

The King was unmoved by the display. Valentin knew the gears rotated. The machine readied itself to be tested.

** _I am challenged._ **

** _The possibility, unexplored._ **

** _For I have never lost._ **

** _Sharpen my edges._ **

** _Children of the Endless._ **

A hand was raised, and the phantom summoned four wraiths. Exact in their image, for incapable of variance, was the King.

_Still clinging to his precious Order._

** _Reap this failed garden._ **

** _Testament to her sacrilege._ **

** _Her sin._ **

** _Upon Celestial bones I will build._ **

** _New Order to follow._ **

The Celestials lifted their hands, and the Queen´s body rose to waiting clouds, for it would not be defiled further.

And as the corpse was spirited away, the four wraiths of the King began their march, legions of worms following their armored footprints. Finally allowed to eat to their heart's content. Worms, small like his fingers. Worms, as large as his full height.

All of them watched as the Darkness swept over the Garden like a plague.

The bearded Celestial first lifted a hand, and was joined by his brethren. Barriers and bolts of Light replaced the rain of venomous bullets, smiting the parts of the Garden which had been overrun with Worms and the scythe carrying wraiths. The Worms shriveled as the light hit them, and the blacked lieutenants of the King screamed in pain as shining bonds wrapped around them.

The bonds of Light wrapped around the King as well, and it roared in defiance, breaking several of the bonds with ease as the Celestials scrambled to recreate them.

** _More._ **

** _Do more._ **

** _Show me her power._ **

** _Show me what I did not see._ **

** _Show me the dance I refused to follow._ **

Valentin felt a side to the King awaken. An _enjoyment_ of the battle raging inside this primordial garden.

A masked glee to be finally matched. Something which had never occurred in the exhausting ages the pattern was obeyed for.

A realization that it could improve. That it had set its automated teeth upon helpless insects, rather than worthy prey.

Its first true hunt had been for the Queen, and yet she was easily disarmed. Her trust for what she thought it was, a glaring weakness. Easily exploited by a being of efficiency.

But now that the Order had been broken, that the King was thrust into something it had never experienced.

He felt it grow. _Thrive_.

In the first proper struggle waged, before time was even a concept.

_For the King was battle made waves._

** _Fulfilling._ **

The King's monstrous depths were unleashed, as its body grew, and its musculature bulged.

The King´s speed was absurd for a being of such corpulence. It feraly rushed the bearded Celestial, the knife stained with the blood of Eternity twitching. Growing. _Eager. Impatient._

The Celestial´s expertise matched the King´s efficiency blow for blow.

Impossibly colored sparks flew, as the Night and the Day clashed a hundred times. The three Celestials rained holy fire upon the King, as its attention was focused on the first.

** _Revealing._ **

Chunks of its armor were seared and blasted, but the King could have cared less. The oil covered the gaps, the armor regrew. For the Darkness is denser than Light. The monster ignored the weaker Celestials, focused on the one who stood his ground where none had done so before.

While the pair of divine primals dueled, the four wraiths attacked the three Celestials, seeking to aid their lord, even if it probably did not require such. This was the first war, the first conflict, the first true clash of wills and creeds.

The King allowed the bearded Celestial to stab it in the chest. A trick, as the King feigned a mistake in an otherwise unbreakable posture.

The Celestial´s silver blade penetrated, and the King made no sound. Pain was a concept beneath extinction.

The trap was sprung, as the gears of the machine spun at impossible speeds. The conveyor belt dragged the Celestial´s arm into the Void, mangling his hand as it was thrust into the woodchipper.

The King wasted no time exploiting the opening, as one enormous hand, the vice of steel, grasped and broke the Celestial´s free arm.

Neutralized, the King balled his second hand into a fist. The pistons fired to full capacity, and a savage punch landed on the Celestial´s unprotected face. The blow sent a shockwave which threw Valentin and the party to the ground, the soil of the garden beginning to fall apart.

The Celestial´s face was broken, he leaked golden blood from the many cracks in his skull. Before a second, fatal, punch could be landed, the King´s arm was restrained by more bonds of Light.

The four phantoms had been pushed back, and the three could assist their brother without interruptions.

Supernovas of Light exploded on the King´s exposed back, channeled by the three Celestials in an attempt to overpower the stubborn Dark. The bedrock of the garden split by the force of the blow, surpassing anything the King had demonstrated throughout the confrontation.

The three Celestials were visibly drained by the effort, as they were brought to their knees by the exertion. The air having left metaphorical lungs, as they heaved dryly to regain their composure. A killing blow, attempted even should their brother be sacrificed.

The price sufficient for the purging of the armored horror.

The storm of dust obscured the King. The outcome was unclear.

** _Exhilarating._ **

There stood the King. Components of the machinery atomized by the blast. Armor blown clean off, exposing a revolting heart which beat underneath.

_Parts which had already started regrowing._

_As the oil flowed._

The first Celestial lay unconscious, but alive. The King gripped the arm still trapped inside its chest, and tore it clean off with a flowing motion.

_For it is battle made waves._

The terror in the Celestial´s eyes was palpable. Gone was the fire which fed the crucible of their courage.

They struggled to stand, as the King slowly approached.

The engine roared in hunger, and it was fed coal.

The chimney spewed smoke.

The wheels were greased.

The King threw itself against the tired Celestials. The four wraiths decided to stand back and watch, afraid of spoiling their master's conquest.

The garden fell apart, chunks of soil falling to a black rising ocean underneath, crimson lightning falling upon helpless plants. The King´s lieutenants slipped to the abyss, their screams unheard as the monster was focused on prey.

On the perfection of the hunt.

** _Majestic._ **

** _Majestic._ **

The King reached the first Celestial, the only one to stand with two feet, and grasped her head in a hand which shot out with the speed of a jackhammer. In one fast motion, the King lifted her body completely off the ground, before bringing it back down against the earth. Head first.

The impact felt like that of a meteor, throwing Valentin to the ground once again. The garden further collapsed, as the black ocean rose. A scarlet inferno raged around them, as the lightning magnified its anger.

The Celestial´s comrades attempted to rescue her, but their blows and attacks were ignored as the King´s savagery blinded it to pain. Their blows were as weak gusts of air, for how little the King paid heed to them.

A second punch to the Celestial´s head dazed her completely, further cratering her body to the soil.

It lifted an armored foot, the obsidian spike of a Pyramid shining in dread finality, introducing the heel which would close that curtain. The boot was brought down, splattering the Celestial´s head as a watermelon falling from a the roof of a building.

A second god had perished today.

** **

** _More._ **

** _The dance cannot end._ **

** _Not yet. _ **

The King descended upon the two remaining, terrified yet defiant, Celestials. They attempted to resist, as the King wrestled with their bodies, throwing them around as if they weighed nothing.

With bullet fast punches, it forced the air out of one Celestial´s lungs, before lifting the god and bringing his back down upon its knee. The bones broke with a crunch which made Valentin want to break down and sob.

_This couldn't be happening._

The King´s attention drifted from the paralyzed, but alive, Celestial.

** _More._ **

The last Celestial stood her ground. If this was to be the end, her execution, she would face it with dignity.

The King decided to not grant this last request, as its knife fingers stabbed her gut, and he pulled down, disemboweling her.

The Celestial wailed in agony, and ran from the King, golden intestines clutched in her arms. The King gave chase, for it was a slave to its instincts.

The garden was now an island. A small rock surrounding a deep dark sea. The infernal plumes consuming the little life which remained around them.

So drunk in the hunt was the King, that it did not notice the first Celestial rise from the ground. Clutching the stump of his arm, he cauterized the weeping wound in a flash of crystal Light, a scowl present on his determined face.

So lost in instinct, was the King, that it did not notice the first Celestial approach its turned back. As it cornered the wounded Celestial on the very edges of the ruined garden, as it closed in for its prize.

The engines roared. Ready to churn fats.

The steel sung, the anthem of unending battle.

The whale droned, for the Deep was rising around it. Rising to won sovereignty.

The Maw salivated, another grave was crafted in preparation.

But the guillotine did not fall.

For the arm of the first Celestial gripped its back.

And _pushed._

Pushed with otherworldly might, as the King fought to regain its balance.

Pushed, with final effort.

Pushed, without fear.

And the King lost its footing.

And it fell.

Out of the garden.

And into the Deep.

Laughing, as it fell.

** _For I was shown._ **

** _Another ending._ **

** _Another way._ **

Silence reigned in the remains of the garden, as the King sunk below the waves, the fires calmed, the earthquakes pacified. The first Celestial closed his sister´s opened cavities. He mended his brother´s back, and wept before the second corpse he would have to bury that day.

Lifeless body in one arm, the three rose to the heavens once more.

Triumphant.

_And yet scarred._

The garden, a tiny island, a murmur of the art it was before, was divided by a barrier of the purest Light.

A barrier above, a barrier below.

For it would forever be a border.

_Between Incomprehensible Heaven._

_Between Vacuous Hell._

As silent ages passed, the garden slowly regrew.

For still, the garden would grow in all directions.

The flowers emerged, the thorns and rocks following suit. The worms would again burrow through fertile soil, and the butterflies would fly through peaceful air. The dragons would forever be torn between the two paths, with many choosing neither.

Some of the creatures fell to the ocean, unaware of the cliffs.

Or perhaps curious.

Inexplicably passing the unyielding barrier.

None would ever return, as the sea of oil swallowed them.

Dread mounted as Valentin always saw the ocean rise. By small centimeters. But every year, it would rise.

The Celestials did not return, and the garden was left to its own devices. Perhaps they thought the barrier would be enough.

They watched as the Deep rose to an almost equal level with the Garden.

Then it seemed to stop.

A collective breath was held.

And Valentin saw it arise from the Deep.

As if emerging from a womb, a figure burst from the roiling ocean. But it was not the same one who had fallen in what seemed like ages ago. This figure was…different.

Six eyes crowned it’s face which masked a bulbous head. Black wings burst from the back as it stood, towering over the Garden like the King had before it. Valentin felt its mind, and it was different than the King´s.

_A different alloy of iron. A different blade from the furnace._

Where the King boasted, this being planned. Where the King raged, this being mused. Where the King was a maelstrom, it was a typhon.

Powerful, but subdued. Subtle.

It was sharpened. Sharpened more finely, more _acutely_ than the King.

But the steel screeched, all the same.

_The Logic hones all things to a fine edge_

From the Deep burst forth three Worms massive in scale and size; capable of eating entire sections of the rebuilt Garden. Two more worms were wrapped around the figure, one's jaws rested close to the creature's ear.

It almost seemed to be listening to the Worm.

The other wrapped around a hand, slithering and coiled as if waiting to strike.

But it was clear who could order this weapon to fire.

_Akka, Eir, Ur, Yul, Xol_

_Command, Order, Power, Truth, Death_

_Behold the Gods born of the Worm_

_Bound to the Ascendant Lord_

And behind the figure and the Worms rose a massive Pyramid. The engines of the King, a warship preparing for deployment, resting on the surface of the ocean of Night. The front opened with Nothing being seen within. Behind the first Pyramid ship rose dozens of others, smaller, but no less final. From the main one emerged nine figures.

They were slender in statues, their bodies in robes and faces in veils. The fabric moved and flowed though no wind was felt. Their clothing seemed to be like liquid, and Valentin couldn’t decide if it was fabric or a part of their body. They were cloaked in gray shadow, though their hearts were as black as the Void they followed.

_Nine cast from the endless Void_

_Nine whose cloak is Shadow and Sorrow_

_Nine who drift on the winds of the Typhon_

_Nine conjoined to the Worm and Ascendant_

_Nine Who Walk Beyond the Veil_

And as one, the army of Darkness marched toward the barrier. A hand raised by the Ascendant Lord aimed itself at the wall; power manifesting into a razor thin edge. The Worms swirled around him, an unholy chanting polluting his ears in a grotesque language born of the anthem of steel. The Nine folded their hands and joined in the chant, power flowing to the Ascendant Lord.

The invisible; lethal blade shot towards the barrier.

And it shattered.

A triumphant screech sounded, and the Darkness stormed forward, with the Ascendant Lord surveying from the Deep, as his armies strode forth into the Garden.

** _Thus, is the Edge wholly honed._ **

** _The Final Shape, heralded forth._ **

All of them were suddenly thrown back into a section of the Garden, away from their bird´s-eye view.

The flowers grew and calcified into buildings, their fruit sprouted legs and walked as people.

The forms were blurry, the language unknowable, the actions vague, but it did not matter. The thorns smelled of gunpowder, the rocks of blood. And the flowers hated the rocks, and the flowers avoided the thorns.

But they could never be rid of them fully.

_For the garden is life_

_And death which accompanies it_

_The enjoyment_

_The suffering_

_The victories_

_The disasters_

_It is all which forms this universe_

_It is the Order which has shaped itself_

And it fell before the armies of Darkness.

They saw an unending menagerie of horrific actions.

Trillions executed by the malformed armies, oil dripping as they marched. Power stolen by the Ascendant Lord, turned to fuel the engines of war. Entire solar systems eaten by the Worms, and still yet more species were wholly consumed to satisfy the insatiable hunger of hellish parasites. Others surrendered, and were convinced by a Worm with practiced lips to sacrifice their bodies willingly and join the legions.

They were thrown back out to the view of the Garden. Swaths had been corrupted and destroyed.

The heavens glowed brightly again. Yet this time, the Celestials stayed above the clouds, looking down upon it.

_Her Legacy must be preserved_

_It cannot be abandoned_

_We will banish this rot once more_

The dead Celestial had returned, and he saw they were no longer four, but five.

_Blessed hierarchy_

_ Still met balance_

_Five Worms for the Lord of the Darkness_

_Five Celestials to challenge their will_

_We are the command of the Sky_

_To creation we beckon_

_Stand against the spawn of the Deep_

Their hands held spheres – perfect replicas of the shell the Traveler utilized, right down to the symbols etched into it. Glowing with Light and clutched in both hands, the Celestials released them through the clouds down into the garden, for they were extensions of divine minds and power. To the garden they descended, the sacred directive of the Sky to be enforced.

The garden extended beyond the grasp of their view. They were rapidly transported above, beyond the atmosphere, beyond the stars.

They could see a galaxy. The lines of cosmic conflict marked.

_Far closer than they wished._

They saw thousands of species see one of the Celestial beings appear. They saw it bestow upon them gifts and power. Civilizations which advanced to heights that seemed nothing short of magical. There was peace, harmony, joy – civilizations united to a degree which could not be broken, gifts of their Celestial gods.

But the threat of the Deep always remained.

_For the war would come._

_As it always did._

_Battle made waves._

_Helpless they will be no longer_

From the billions of civilizations who had been touched by the Light, a handful were separated and granted the power of the gods themselves. Infused with the Light, they were given the might to stand firm against the Darkness, bearing the finest of weapons, the strongest armor, and the backing of the Celestials themselves. Who always watched from within the Sky.

Only for the few. Only for the worthy. Only for the greatest of all.

_Guardians_

The Guardians marched to face the Darkness.

They saw the first clashes. Thousands of battles in the span of what seemed like moments.

Light and Dark meeting as one. The unprepared forces of corruption being wiped from the galaxy at the organized hand of the Guardians. Civilizations and species on the brink of collapse saved by the legions of Light-bearers to dispel the Darkness.

But the Darkness adapted.

The Edge sharpened.

_For this is the Deep_

_Adaptiveness itself_

The overwhelming victories faded. The Worms emerged. Many Guardians were swallowed. Others were infected; corrupted. The armies of Darkness cut down more. The Celestials drew more from the endless ranks. Sphere and Worm engaged each other, with sometimes the Celestial being and destroyed, their vim drank.

Upon this, they saw the Celestial within the Sky who had created it fall to the ground, life faded from their eyes. But another emerged, one with similar, but divergent features, with sphere in hand, ready to return to the war without end.

More often, one of the Worms fell in battle, ripped apart by the Light or slain by the Guardians. Yet they seemed to be as difficult to kill as the Celestials, as they burst once more from the Deep beside the Ascendant Lord, who sent them back into the Garden.

_War for Eternity should the Thrones not be broken_

_War for Eternity should the Sky remain unbreached_

They focused in on a planet. A lone flower which lay surrounded by a pool of ammonia, where a butterfly rested upon and protected the species within. Yet there were three of the species who resented its protection; they sought more. They sought power. They sought to evolve. To punish the universe for their meek little lives.

The Honest Worm always listened, and its charming answers did the helpless three sway.

The whispers called. The whispers were sweet. The whispers called to the bottom of the unexplored deep.

From the Worm came three wriggling larvae, each given to the fallen three. The larvae were ingested to the delight of the parasite God, and the three were transformed into monsters of Darkness. Forever changed, yet now granted the power they had sought.

_Three now bound to the Worm_

_Three bound to the Ascendant Lord_

_Three bound to the Darkness_

They seemed to plot as the Worm granted them countless amounts of the larvae, which they spread to their brethren, transforming them into another army in service of the Deep. Different morphs and carapaces made up the demonic horde, all of whom were inevitably tied to the three.

Three eyes on their heads, three crowns to their queens.

The many who hungered, the few who ruled.

_Bound to the Hive_

_Who are bound to the Three_

_Who are bound to the Worm_

_Who are bound to the Throne_

With their army, they attacked with the Worm in tow, the Butterfly was unprepared to fully deal with the onslaught, and the group witnessed the execution of the species who lived above, in palaces carved from fifty two moons. Blissful in paradise. Ignorant to the rot below. The Butterfly was slain, and gorged upon by the Three as the Worm allowed itself to expire – only to once more be born in the roiling Deep.

And the three were brought to the barrier.

One was taken beyond it.

And he emerged a behemoth of power, an army of azure wraiths in his wake. For he was no longer small.

_He was no longer preyed on Krill._

_Born at the bottom of the universe, taught to borrow._

_Instead, he grew wings._

_Behold the Taken King_

_He, who rules the High War_

_The Greatest of the Three_

_The Bane of Light and Guardian_

And so the Taken King marched onto the galaxy, storming world after world, and facing the Guardians who defended. They stood firm, even as they sometimes lost – and sometimes slew the King. Yet the gift of immortality appeared to be bestowed upon him, as he simply reemerged from the Deep. From that blackened womb which birthed and births forevermore.

The conflict had only grown more widespread. A Garden which was on constant fire. A conflict which had spanned eons, and would span eons more.

Devastation and creation.

Victory and defeat.

Slaughter and sacrifice.

Endless death and eternal life.

_The Great War_

_Light and Darkness_

_Until the equilibrium is breached, there shall be conflict eternal_

_The Worms shall live _

_The Celestials shall endure_

_But all mortals will know suffering_

Already they had been shown countless species and civilizations wiped from the galaxy. They did not come back. They could _not_ come back. Not even the Guardians could save them at times, and the Darkness was more than content to sacrifice all who were not the Worms or Nine Beyond the Veil.

And then they found themselves overlooking a solar system.

A very familiar solar system.

Earth rested peacefully within it, undisturbed despite the chaos they could see from beyond. The conflict so close and so very far away.

But then there approached angular shadows. Obsidian daggers, encircling the lonely world.

The steel sung, the legacy of the forgotten King. Forgotten, but ever present.

The roar of his engines always heard.

Vast armadas joined the monoliths, awaiting a command to be finally let loose. And below Earth one of the Worms slithered, it’s maw opening to consume the world which in sweet bliss slept.

_None shall be spared in this conflict_

_The Darkness is inevitable_

_It is battle made waves_

Earth began darkening, turning a sickly brown and black as tendrils of corruption spread across it until it became a husk of a dead world. The rest of the solar system followed. The Sun was turned off like a lamp light . Mercury froze into a ball of ice. Mars broke apart into corrupted chunks. The Moon dissolved into blood. The Worm swallowed Jupiter, Neptune, and Uranus. The atmosphere of Venus turned black.

_Discrimination, unnecessary _

_Negotiation, amusing_

_Conquest, worshipped_

_Destruction, craven_

They found themselves on Earth. The sky above was yellow and orange; smoke filled the air; noxious fumes that he struggled to breathe. He saw Moscow, the shining Soviet city overrun with nameless hounds that salivated oil, miniature Maws, filled with spinning conveyors of teeth. Their handlers, the apparitions which laughed at reality under service of the Taken King. Which twitched in ecstasy, ecstasy carved by a freely accepted Knife.

Mounds of bodies displaced; laying in pools of viscera and corruption. More dragged away to be slaughtered. Others given to the Worm larvae to be transformed into monsters. Everything was destroyed. Everything was dead.

The great armies of the Triumvirate laid to waste without so much as putting a dent into their unsurmountable numbers.

How could a war be fought on such a cosmic scale? It was simply impossible. Impossible if they were alone.

They could not hope to win.

They could not hope to survive.

As Earth vanished, they found themselves standing back in the city of light.

But now there was a figure standing before them. A woman of lapis-carved eyes. The Day was her mantle, and the Sky was her gown.

It could have been only her.

The bright light intensified and with a whooshing noise, he knew they were being transported back to Mars – though not before a final message was delivered.

Her words repeated verbatim by the whispers inside his head. Whispers which, he finally understood, were small seeds planted into the prepared fields of his chosen mind.

Words, that for Her he could speak.

_You stand within Almaral_

_ Traveler of Galaxies_

_The Fifth Celestial of the Sky _

_Source of the Eternal Light_

_I am your only hope_

***

TO BE CONTINUED IN **CHAPTER VI | RETURN**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was largely written by Edumesh, with me writing the first draft, which he took and revised to be what it is now, much better than what I could have done by myself. He deserves the credit for how this chapter turned out, which I think is one of the best pieces of writing I’ve posted. Hope you all enjoyed it as well - go read his stuff too, it’s just as good.
> 
> The new cover art (which is in the Introduction chapter) was also done by HailtotheKing, who’s done artwork and emblems for my XCOM stuff. I do consider this potentially the best work he’s done.


	8. Chapter VI | Return

**ACT I | THE TYRANT’S MALEVOLENCE**

***

**CHAPTER VI | RETURN**

***

**BRIDGE | ARES ONE | MARS**

Valentin took the offered cup of water from Admiral Amanda Holliday. He certainly needed it after speaking for…how long was it now? It felt like hours. When they’d emerged to find that Ares One, as well as the warships, had been resting on the surface – likely teleported - that had been the place to go.

None of them had any idea who or what would be left, as much as they were thinking about such things after what they’d seen. His own mind had felt like it was fried after seeing things it wasn’t made for. His dreams that night had been filled with spheres, pyramids, light and darkness; an overarching dread lasting with him hours after he’d awoken.

The whole experience had been extremely draining; trying to sort his own emotions from those induced by the vision. In the moment; in the Traveler, it had seemed that everything was certain and natural, and now after several hours back in the real world, all of them were struck at how fantastical the supernatural event they had experienced was.

And yet, he knew a few things for certain.

The Traveler was here to help.

They were threatened by an enemy of darkness.

And that he was chosen.

For what? He didn’t know. But he’d passively come to understand it as he’d been in the Traveler; he had been addressed before the rest of them; he’d adapted to the madness with surprising quickness. And he felt there was _some_ kind of connection between him and the hovering Celestial in the Martian sky.

It filled him with a certainty about those three things which defied explanation. He _knew_ what she wanted and her true intentions on a primal, instinctive level. He couldn’t explain how, yet he knew he was certain. He had touched the mind of a god, and it has bestowed upon him knowledge.

The Ghost had stayed by his side since exiting, maintaining a close orbit around him, though it was less of a cold observer, almost like a companion. It seemed to understand what he’d seen; what he was experiencing, and let him have space, while offering an encouraging or explanative word here and there.

As it turned out, Amanda Holliday was still here, and was now the highest ranking Triumvirate officer who remained. She’d taken command of what was left of the Ares One expedition, and had him brought to her to give an explanation. Well, ‘brought’ was slightly harsh. If one considered a nervous junior officer meekly knocking on his quarters and saying that Admiral Holliday wanted to see him, and then escorting him to a bridge, one could say he was ‘brought’.

He’d never met the American prodigy, nor know a significant amount about her before today outside of what was common knowledge. All he knew was that she was a genius, had pioneered much of modern space naval theory, and was extremely young for her rank. The few people he’d heard of who’d met her only had nice things to say, but that didn’t explain much.

Nonetheless, he was struck by just _how_ young she was. She was only a half-decade or so older than he was, and he had yet to reach thirty. She didn’t exactly cut an intimidating figure, standing shorter than him, nor was she an especially intense presence. In fact, she seemed rather friendly for an Admiral.

Friendly, if bothered. Unsettled, perhaps.

She wasn’t the only one.

She’d cleared the bridge and sat him down. Even if she was nice, she had some steel in her voice, and her kind emerald eyes transitioned to intense calculation as she appraised him. That would have normally been something which put him on guard, but after what he’d experienced, he truly wondered if there was anything anyone could do which would shake him again.

What sadness could equal the betrayal in the Garden? What horror could equal the trillions of lives lost to the darkness? What pain and terror could match what he’d felt when the King of Old had turned his gaze upon him?

Everything seemed…_mundane_ compared to that.

He involuntarily suppressed a shiver at the memory of the King.

Amanda had sat down opposite him, and he’d told her what he’d seen. Words seemed inadequate to describe the experience. He realized how ludicrous they sounded when speaking them aloud, yet didn’t stumble in the explanation. Mad or not to their minds, reality was clearly more malleable than any of them had believed. He couldn’t go back to skepticism and disbelief, not after what he’d experienced.

Though the vast majority had not experienced the same revelation.

He’d tried working in the emotional component to the vision. Not simply explaining _what _had happened, but the sheer scale of emotions; their overwhelming nature. Seeing was not enough; feeling was just as important, at least when it came to this. He didn’t know how Amanda was taking his story, as she’d been largely silent, content to let him speak.

Finished now, he took a drink of water, and waited for the verdict.

“Well,” Amanda said in a slow, neutral voice. “If I had heard that story from anyone else, my first instinct would be to recommend them to a mental institution. But given the circumstances, I can only assume that you’re telling the truth.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Just like that?”

The Admiral snorted. “Don’t get me wrong, I’m not downplaying how…insane some of what you described is. But either you’re one of the most creative liars I’ve ever met, or you’re telling me exactly what you saw. Based on how you’ve acted, I feel confident in saying you’re not lying.”

She leaned forward, resting her arms on the table. “I debriefed Servicewoman Collens before you. She said some of the same things you did, but you provided far more context and clarity. She said that you seemed to be singled out by this Traveler. Do you know why?”

“No.”

“Do you have an _idea_ why?”

“Not truly,” he glanced at the Ghost hovering above him. “If you want to answer, please do so.”

“I cannot speak to the Traveler’s decisions,” the Ghost warbled. “I do not share a connection with Her in the way you do. I think you know why you understand and see more; that you experienced the vision as _She_ sees it.”

Valentin was silent for a moment. He wondered, but it felt odd to vocalize. “She sees me as an ideal; someone who can understand and share her goals and beliefs. Worthy and capable of her blessing. A symbol to rise to.” He shrugged. “I don’t know what that says about me, or her for that matter. I’m not anyone especially unique or important.”

“You sound sure of that.”

“I’m sure about quite a few things, and I don’t really understand why for most of them.”

“I see,” Amanda drummed her fingers on the table. “Well, partially. But you clearly are favored by her to some degree. What does she want with us?”

“To protect us.”

“From this Darkness?”

“Yes.” A pause, before he amended the answer. “Not _just_ to protect us, but to uplift us. Allow us to protect ourselves.”

“Through these…Guardians?”

“Beings who can wield the Light, yes.”

“But not for everyone.”

“No. Not everyone.”

Amanda’s face was contemplative, as her eyes briefly became unfocused. “What does she intend for the Triumvirate?”

Valentin hesitated. “I’m not completely sure. She _wants_ to believe the best, and if the Triumvirate works with her, then she will work with them. I’m certain of that. But I…” he trailed off, remembering he was speaking to one of the highest ranked women in the United States military.

He still had to remember that. Certain things were maybe best unsaid.

Amanda appraised him knowingly. “But you wonder how compatible the Traveler and Triumvirate are.”

She was full of surprises. “To a degree, yes. I…do not think she would take kindly to certain actions the Triumvirate has taken.”

“But she might be willing to overlook them if the Triumvirate plays ball.”

“I believe so.”

“Wonderful,” Amanda said dryly. “There may be a chance then. Thankfully the Triumvirate isn’t run by idiots. They’re not likely to fuck with her after seeing what she can do. Though it remains to be seen how much of this they believe. You know they’re going to interview you.”

“Of course they are. I’m looking forward to my stay in the Lubyanka.”

Amanda chuckled. “You Soviets and fear of the KGB. Even they wouldn’t be so brazen as to do that to you, especially not with your friend nearby,” she nodded to the Ghost, who spun the fins on its shell. “_Especially_ once they come to the same conclusion I did – that the Traveler has an eye on you in particular. They’ll want to be on their best behavior.”

“You clearly haven’t met many Soviets then. They get what they want eventually.”

“And are you going to hide anything?”

“No, never.”

“Then from what I see, you don’t have much to worry about,” she cocked her head. “In fact, you’re likely to become a very important person over the next few months.”

“I can’t wait.”

“Clearly,” she answered in a similar sarcastic tone. “I’ll be sure to put in a good word for you. I don’t know how much it will help, but I have a few connections myself, as well as my rank. Someone will listen. If the Soviets give you trouble, I will ensure that you can receive American asylum.”

He blinked, caught off guard. That was not a promise that he could _ever_ recall being given, even in the most outlandish of rumors. Every Triumvirate nation was so close that they tended to not interfere in each other’s matters. One of the most prominent Admirals in the United States offering this was no small thing.

“I…thank you,” he said after a moment. “But, and don’t take this the wrong way, could I get that in writing?”

She smiled. “Certainly – though first, I have one more question.”

“What?”

“How exactly are we going to get back to Earth?” She nodded outside. “When most of my crew vanished, and we were set on the ground thanks to our Celestial benefactor, we were effectively stranded. The Ghosts are stubbornly guarding the comms, so we can’t even let the Triumvirate know we’re still alive. Is she just planning to teleport us back to Earth?”

That had been something Valentin had wondered as well, and now that he thought about it, the answer seemed clear. “She wants to test us. To see if we can get ourselves back.”

“How?”

“I do have an idea,” he said, glancing upward. “Ghost – I don’t suppose that the Traveler has…I don’t know, schematics stored somewhere? Of spacecraft?”

“Indeed, She has many,” the Ghost turned its eye to Amanda. “While you have a slight manpower and construction shortage, we are capable of being quite a versatile tool, provided you give us direction.”

“So…” Amanda tapped a finger on her chin. “We build a spacecraft to take us home. A better one, presumably.”

“We’ll need engineers and scientists,” Valentin said. “I don’t suppose you took a look at who’s left?”

“I did, actually. We’ve been reduced to roughly thirty percent personnel. Fortunately quite a few of our mechanics, engineers, and scientists are still with us. Most of the soldiers, civilians, and high ranking personnel are gone.”

Valentin pursed his lips. “I wonder if that was the criteria.”

“You don’t know?”

“I know there was some rationale. I don’t know the exact one.”

“Hm,” she appraised the Ghost, which looked down at her almost innocently. “I have an idea of my own, but I want to confirm some things first. But if that’s what the Traveler wants…I suppose we should get to work. Time to build a spaceship. Again.”

***

**THE KREMLIN | RUSSIA | SOVIET UNION**

Clovis finished observing the debriefing of yet another of the Space Marines who’d been returned to Earth. The interrogator was asking the same questions he’d asked all of the others, and was receiving the same answers. The good news was that the narrative of what _had _happened – as far as what they could learn - was being stitched together.

The bad news was that none of them knew what it meant.

All contact with Mars had been cut. No one knew if anyone left on the planet was still alive. Ares One, the warships, the outposts, there was no communication whatsoever. The Traveler, as it was called, was still in the same place it had been, but for all they knew it was planning to leave or attack them.

And yet, Clovis wasn’t assuming the worst yet. It still wasn’t hostile…presumably. It could have probably killed all of them, and yet it had just sent them back. Now that he’d seen the aftermath, the worst fears of himself and the rest of the Triumvirate had been realized. Namely, that they didn’t truly stand a chance against this thing. Not a legitimate one.

It was going to be a very, very thin, very dangerous, line they would have to walk.

A fine line between taking what the alien offered, treating it well, and deciding to handle it later. Perhaps when they were on more even footing. Right now they posed no threat, and the alien knew that. It _had_ to. Predicting what it did next was impossible right now; but something which _was_ possible was figuring out who was left – and who had been chosen.

Luka walked up beside him and cleared his throat. “[General Secretary, he’s here,]”

Upon hearing that, Clovis turned away and walked with him towards the sealed room where he was to be briefed. “[Any change in the Traveler’s position?]”

“[No, General Secretary,]” Luka coughed. “[Still in orbit. But there has been a development. Several images that were taken from telescopes and satellites seem to indicate that the outposts are still on-planet, but that the ships themselves are gone.]”

Clovis blinked, though didn’t pause his pace. “[_Gone_?]”

“[As in they are no longer in orbit. We can find no trace of debris. It’s unknown if they were destroyed or moved.]”

Clovis briefly closed his eyes, followed by a brief shake of his head. “[Wonderful. Exactly what we need right now. This must be recent if you’re just telling me now.]”

“[Very recent. Ten minutes ago.]”

“[I’ll handle that after this.]”

They opened the door to the small conference room, where Hayden Fox, Director of the Triumvirate Intelligence Service waited. Clovis considered him an admirable figure; a person who firmly believed in the Triumvirate and the world that was to be built. Anyone who held such a position should, and it was fortunate that he had an ideological ally.

“General Secretary, thank you,” Fox shook his hand, as they approached, as well as Luka’s.

“I should be thanking you, Director,” Clovis said. “You’ve been working tirelessly. You look a bit paler, I hope you’re treating yourself well?”

“A few long days won’t kill me, but I appreciate the concern,” Fox waved off, though it was true that his already-pale skin seemed whiter; though perhaps that was the light. What was not the light were the circles under his eyes or the weariness in them. Since they’d lost contact with Mars, every single intelligence service had been working around the clock to find out who had been returned, who was missing, and what that could mean.

But the most pressing question in the minds of everyone who was being informed was who the five people who had been chosen to speak to the Traveler were. Clovis knew most of the names now, but of those, only one with any concrete knowledge. “You have been able to identify the selected individuals?”

“Correct,” Fox laid out a small stack of pictures. “I’ll do a brief overview of what you already know. It’s been corroborated through numerous eyewitnesses that five individuals were seemingly selected at random by the Traveler to speak. None of them seemed to be expecting it, and were willing to defer to their superiors. This was refused by the Traveler and resulted in multiple personnel being returned to Earth. The question, obviously, is who these individuals are, and why they may have been selected.”

He separated the first picture. “First identified individual – Valentin Kozhukhov. Currently a Cosmonaut, one with a commendable service record and no history of misconduct or disloyalty. KGB records have nothing outstanding on him. His past is similarly clean; his family were agricultural workers, who grew up poor in Russia. Despite this, the Kozhukhovs maintain full allegiance to the Soviet state, and the ‘desire to serve the Motherland’ is something Valentin specifically cited when applying for the Cosmonauts.”

“An ideal Soviet,” Clovis frowned, thinking something didn’t add up. “Outside of his immediate family, any others he is close to?”

“Two others who were selected, actually,” Fox confirmed. “Fang Sov and Liana Collens. We will get to them shortly. The point being that there is nothing which indicates why he would be selected by an alien. Director Ulyanin may disagree, but the KGB has not relayed any concerns they had towards him.”

Luka nodded. “If anything, is this a positive development. He is reliable.”

“Noted. Who are the others?”

“Fang Sov,” Fox separated the second picture. “Taikonaut, close friend of Valentin. He is obviously part of the Sov family, one of the most influential power brokers in the Communist Party.”

“I’m aware of the Sovs,” Clovis recalled. “Few families hold seats on the Politburo itself. Still fewer have the ear of the President.”

“Exactly,” Fox confirmed. “Fang is extremely well-connected. He wasn’t assigned to Ares One purely out of familial connections – he is a skilled Taikonaut, but he is politically untouchable in China, and of all of the selected individuals, has the most exterior influence.”

“Why is he a Taikonaut?” Clovis wondered. “Few in the elite families would choose a role like that.”

“Supposedly he did not care for the politics, and wanted to serve his country more tangibly,” Fox elaborated. “Something his family supported him in, since they saw it as a means to expand their own influence into the Imperial space program. Even if he isn’t involved deeply in the Communist Party, he was certainly raised as an elite.”

“Curious that he is friends with Valentin,” Luka noted. “Their socioeconomic backgrounds are vastly different.”

“It is possible he was unaware of Valentin’s past,” Fox said with a shrug. “Or he lacks prejudice against lower classes. I suspect it would be different if Valentin was not Russian. It is unlikely that he would associate with a lower class Chinese individual on the same level.”

“With this context, I _can_ see why the Traveler may be interested in him,” Clovis mused. “A man with connections directly to one of the most powerful Chinese families, who has the ear of the President. His inclusion makes sense. Whatever the Traveler would want to say, it can be sure it would reach the highest levels of the Chinese.”

“Correct, and we reached a similar conclusion,” Fox confirmed. “As did the Ministry of State Security.”

“Continue, then.”

“Liana Collens,” the third picture was separated. “United States Space Force, Infantrywoman. Similar to Valentin in that she is largely unremarkable. She grew up in the States, so she is a full-blooded patriotic American. Her family is from a middle class socioeconomic background, with a history of military service, most of which was in South America.”

“Such a wonderful period of American history.”

“Quite, but the woman herself is no one special. She’s fairly intelligent based on military testing, but no genius. She was on track for steady promotion, and has a history of good conduct. Nothing alarming or out of the ordinary.”

“What is her relationship to Valentin?”

“Friends. Not romantic to our knowledge. They met around the same time as Valentin met Fang, though the latter is only tangibly acquainted.”

Clovis nodded. “So another person with no obvious reason why she’d be chosen.”

“Unfortunately not.”

“Continue.”

“Milya Mihaylova,” Fox indicated the fourth picture. “The Chief Linguist of Ares One, on loan from India. Extremely talented, recommended by President Gopal himself, no history of misconduct, and ever a professional.”

“Is she Hindu?”

Luka snorted at the comment. “Of course not. She’s a born-again Zionist,” he rolled his eyes. “Of _course_ she’s a Hindu!”

“It was just a question,” Clovis said dryly, raising his hands. “I’m trying to learn if there’s anything _unusual _about her.”

“From what we’ve found, very little,” Fox shook his head. “Truthfully, a linguist makes complete sense for speaking to an entity like this – were it not for the fact that this alien could communicate perfectly already. She was unnecessary, and despite her recommendation from the President, she’s not someone who holds significant influence anywhere in the Indian government.”

“Did she know any of the others?”

“Only one – and we’ll get to him.”

Luka appraised the image. “I don’t suppose the Indians have some insight?”

“Their best guess was her linguistic background which _is_ plausible, but as mentioned, it’s debatable _how_ useful that is if communication is already flawless.”

“Let’s move onto the last one,” Clovis said. “One I incidentally know the least about.”

“Jacob Milton,” unlike the other images, this one was a lower-resolution one, as if taken from a security camera. “Perhaps the individual of greatest concern. Largely because we don’t actually know who he is.”

Clovis furrowed his brow. “How?”

“That is a very good question,” Fox said slowly. “But a recurring theme in each of the debriefs is that this man is someone who is very nebulous. Some said he was CIA, others that he was maintenance, others that they had no idea. He interacted very little with anyone, and no one seemed to question what he was doing.”

Fox opened a file. “According to the manifest, he was a CIA operative. The only issue is that there is no record of a “Jacob Milton” in CIA records, confirmed by the CIA themselves. Nor is ‘Jacob Milton’ affiliated with any other American intelligence agency. This has led me to conclude that Ares One was infiltrated by an unknown third party.”

Clovis was legitimately stunned by the revelation. “That should not be possible,” he said in amazement. “Who could possibly…” he trailed off, his eyes narrowing. “Israel.”

“More likely this is one of the Ayatollah’s people,” Fox amended. “Though I suppose it is one and the same. But we reached a similar conclusion. Only the Ayatollah has the motivation to attempt something like this, and he has enough operatives to carry it out. Both the ethnicity and age match, since this man was described as middle-aged and Arabic.”

“For what purpose though?” Luka wondered. “These terrorists rarely perform operations like ‘infiltration’. Sabotage is more in-character.”

“This is unfounded, but the current speculation is that they also wanted to get to the alien,” Fox said. “Perhaps to talk directly with it. I don’t know how they thought that would happen, but this is a desperate group, and they might feel there is nothing to lose.”

“Still, that raises troubling questions about our security that the manifest was able to be edited,” Clovis said slowly. “And since it was a Triumvirate-wide project, the gaps could be anywhere.”

“Probably India or China,” Luka grunted.

“Should the Triumvirate agree, and I believe they should, we stand ready to find the source of this vulnerability and quash it,” Fox promised, ever the diplomat. “The more concerning question I personally have, General Secretary, is what the alien wants with him. Or what his interest in Milya is, since she was someone who he spoke with quite frequently on Mars.”

“Did she know who he was?”

“His cover story no doubt. The chances that she was aware of his true identity are close to zero.”

Clovis rubbed his forehead, thinking. “One member from each Triumvirate nation was selected – and an outlier who represents those who still resists us. That cannot be a coincidence.”

“Very unlikely,” Fox agreed. “But there is another component I’m certain we are missing. It cannot be as simple as that.”

“I don’t know,” Clovis crossed his arms. “Is there anything that can be drawn from those who were sent back, and those who remained on Mars?”

“That is ongoing, but currently, no,” Fox confirmed. “We know who is here, and who is not. We are also cross-checking with agencies and organizations to see if there were any additional infiltrators on Ares One and later launches. I can confirm that almost the entirety of Ares Ones command, with the exception of Admiral Holliday, were sent back, along with a majority of military personnel.”

“Perhaps it didn’t want to be threatened?” Luka wondered.

“Considering that it instantly moved several thousand people between Mars and Earth in the blink of an eye, do you truly think it is threatened?” Clovis asked dryly. “No, there is something else here. Keep Luka and myself informed on any possible answers.”

“Certainly,” Fox put the pages and pictures back into one pile. “While I understand it is not my place, General Secretary, I would encourage you and the Triumvirate to address this…incident as soon as possible. This entire situation has many rattled, and people appearing out of nowhere all around the world is raising tensions. I would prefer that violence not break out.”

“I will be working on it,” Clovis promised. “I presume you are giving similar briefings after me?”

“I’ve given one to the Chinese Politburo so far,” Fox said. “President Quinn and her cabinet will be next, followed by a personal meeting with Gopal. I hope these will be concluded within the next few days so the Triumvirate can coordinate a response.”

That was good to hear – and it would give him something of a head start in containing the worst of the panic. China was not handling the outbreak of panic ideally, which provided the Soviet Union an ample opportunity to showcase how it was done. Provided all of his people executed their jobs correctly.

“Thank you for your time, Director,” the three men stood, and shook hands again. “And convey my direct thanks to your people.”

“Of course, General Secretary,” Fox inclined his head. “I hope to provide you with clearer answers soon.”

***

**OASIS | MARS**

Isaiah sat himself down on the ledge which overlooked the small Oasis which was a moderate distance from the now-landed Ares One. A pleasant wind blew, and the sounds of the water flowing were soothing to the ear. Alien, yet familiar. The trees were distinctly Martian, but the geography reminded him of certain places on Earth.

More importantly, it was a place which was fairly isolated and ideal if he wanted to be alone. The sun had almost set, and everyone was either on Ares One – working to strip it with the Ghosts – or going to sleep. Routines and shifts had been broken completely since they’d emerged.

After all, what really mattered at this point? Who were they protecting themselves from? The Traveler was clearly strong enough to take care of all of them, and considering Mars had been a dead rock before she’d begun changing it, the only threats would come from her own hand, and to their knowledge, wildlife hadn’t been created.

He’d had many, many experiences in his life. Some good, some bad, many intense. Moments of life and death were more common to him than veteran soldiers. He thought he was at a point in his life where he just didn’t _care_ what happened to anything beyond the cause. The war had become revenge, perhaps because he realized that was the best they could strive for.

Could the Triumvirate _really_ fall? Perhaps.

If he was being honest with himself, it was unlikely. Oh, for sure he’d told the recruits otherwise; even his most optimistic appraisal was pessimistic, but it _had_ given some hope that there was a chance. It was so convincing he had believed it himself. Now it seemed like things were clearer, he could look at things in a more objective light.

Or maybe he was entering into a downward spiral.

Or he was just confused.

Nothing – absolutely _nothing_ – had been able to compare with what he had experienced in that vision. He’d had multiple conversations with Hamaza and Father Ryan, and something which he’d always wondered and been skeptical of had been visions; of which there’d been many in the Bible and Quran respectively. Hallucinations seemed like the most likely explanation for many of them, because how could they know what they experienced was divine?

_Be careful what you want to know, you just might learn it._

Because now he understood; understood far more intimately than he had ever wanted to know. The Traveler may not be a ‘god’ in the traditional sense, but it was certainly otherworldly; it was beyond comprehension, it was beyond explanation. It was Divine in the truest sense of the word.

That unnerved him.

Perhaps scared him.

For so long he’d been dismissive of such concepts. Faiths in a higher power. Miracles. Feats which defied explanation. They were impossible; they went against science and reason. Too many people who’d fooled themselves into thinking there was something out there, when the reality was a cold, ruthless universe.

But now he’d seen.

There was something else out there.

Maybe not in the way those people imagined, but he had _seen_ it. He had _experienced_ it. His mind had seen something it was simply not meant to; things which defied the three-dimensional confines of reality. He’d seen it, and couldn’t deny what it meant. It raised so many questions and threatened to upend a lot of things he’d come to believe.

For once, he _wished_ the elder Ayatollah was around. Figured that the one time he wanted to talk he was literally another world away.

The last rays of the sun faded and the bright stars of the galaxy lit the sky. There were so many, and it was quite beautiful. No pollution of the skies, so he had an unrestricted view of them. The air was growing colder, but it was nothing compared to the Sahara at night. It was a good place to think; maybe sort himself out.

He pulled out a small bottle of beer. Not once had he experienced something where it seemed like drinking was a legitimate reaction, but if seeing the death of the universe didn’t apply, nothing did. Popping the top of it off, he wondered just where all of them went from here.

None of them could pretend like things could go back to normal. Not after seeing _that_. He felt like the only one who’d understood at least more than a vague impression of the vision was the Valentin man, and the others had been in various states of overwhelmed. Milya had held up in the beginning, but even she’d slowly become more of an observer.

The Traveler seemed to have singled out Valentin. He wondered why.

He didn’t belong with the small group. It was tiring to maintain the façade of his loyalties. All of them talking about how they were going to explain this to Commander this, and Administrator that, and he was just wondering how he was going to get back without being captured. By now the Triumvirate knew that someone was on Ares One who shouldn’t have been, and they’d be waiting.

He hated competent opponents.

Thought oddly enough, he didn’t really feel in danger. Maybe it was because he felt the Traveler was watching over him, or maybe because he would come up with a brilliant escape plan. One of the two, though most likely the former.

_Huh, maybe this is what faith feels like._

He took a long swig of the beer.

And immediately spat it back out.

Ah yes, the reason he didn’t drink was because he utterly _hated_ the taste of anything alcoholic.

And as it turned out, seeing the end of the universe _didn’t_ make the taste better.

“[It appears that you dislike that drink.]” The Ghost which had become something of a watcher materialized in front of him.

The voice has become more natural-sounding since they’d first ‘met’, and its fins angled towards him, as if focusing with the eye glowing brightly. He still wasn’t fully sure what to make of the machine, but he didn’t hold the initial mistrust. “[Because I do,]” he answered. “[I hate alcohol.]”

She sounded puzzled, and her shell turned at an angle as if puzzled. “[But you brought it.]”

“[It’s…]” He wondered if he was _really_ going to bother explaining a concept like ‘drinking’ to a machine which could literally create things out of thin air. “[It’s a thing humans do to make themselves not think about things.]”

“[Oh,]” her fins twirled. “[What do you want to forget? Not me, I hope.]”

Despite himself, he snorted. “[In general, I don’t like forgetting at all. Ah, it’s…I don’t know what I was thinking. Seeing the end of the everything isn’t something I experience everyday.]”

“[Few can experience the true nature of the Traveler; you comprehended more than most.]”

“[Wonderful. Almost wish I hadn’t.]” He sighed, and put the bottle to the side. “[But since you’re here, and in a chatty mood, let’s talk.]”

“[You can talk to me anytime. I’ve been beside you the whole time.]”

Isaiah raised an eyebrow. “[Doing what? Watching me?]”

“[You seem like you could use it.]”

“[Normally, I’d take offense, but I’ll accept it this time.]”

“[But what do you want to talk about?]”

He clasped his hands together, and looked very intently at the machine. “[Let’s be honest with each other, yes? What do you really know about me and what I am?]”

The Ghost bobbed in the air slightly. “[Someone who’s experienced great pain and loss at the behest of the Triumvirate. Someone whose only desire had been to destroy which has destroyed him.]”

He pursed his lips. “[More poetic than I’d have put it. You know what I am. So why include me in that group? The Traveler isn’t going to cast down the Triumvirate; that seems clear at this point.]”

“[It depends on what they do,]” the Ghost said. “[There have been many species which have found a road to redemption; when they realized that their petty, destructive conflicts meant nothing in the face of the Darkness. Species who have committed far worse crimes than the Triumvirate ever has.]”

He did believe what the Ghost was saying, but he still shook his head. “[You haven’t met the Triumvirate. If you help them; if _she_ helps them, you’re not going to be saving us, you’ll just be ensuring many, many people die.]”

“[She will not let that happen.]”

“[Oh?]” He asked skeptically. “[Where exactly is the line drawn? What threshold is too far? If what they’ve _already_ done isn’t enough, then what is left?]” He gave a hard chuckle. “[I guess they’ve already won.]”

“[And what would you prefer?]” The Ghost challenged. “[That she cast down the Triumvirate and declare herself a ruler of your species? Is that what you wish to see happen?]”

“[No, that’s…]” he scowled. “[That’s an exaggeration, and you know it.]”

“[And you know that a solution is not so simple,]” the Ghost said. “[What is preferable, Isaiah? That the Triumvirate is destroyed? Or that it willingly changes when it sees what it faces? It is not the way of the Traveler, nor Her kind, to dictate the path a species takes. She will be their guide and protector, but not their ruler.]”

Isaiah pinched the bridge of his nose. “[She has more faith than I do that the Triumvirate can change. I’ve fought them for…decades now. I’ve seen their rise and how they’ve held onto power. How they use it. People like that don’t just…change.]”

“[Change will come,]” the Ghost promised softly, moving a bit closer to his face. “[You have been without faith for so long, and now you remember what it is like. Put that faith in Her. If only for a little while.]”

“[And do what in the meantime?]” Isaiah motioned around. “[What am I supposed to tell the Resistance? Stop fighting? Have faith that she’ll make the Triumvirate change? They didn’t _see_ what I did. I _do_ believe that she’ll try, I do, but in the meantime? They’re not going to stop hunting us and killing us. Because we defy them.]”

“[I cannot tell you to stop,]” she said. “[But I am asking you to trust Her; trust the people She has selected. They were chosen because of who they are; men and women who are capable of compassion and kindness. Who believe that the Triumvirate can be _better_. Now, for the first time, these people will be listened to.]”

He’d wondered if that was the case. “[She’s an idealist, isn’t she?]”

“[It is better to see the best in a people, instead of the worst.]”

“[I wish I had your optimism,]” he glanced back to the bottle. Next time he’d fill it with something that didn’t taste like sewage. The feeling of taking a drink with none of the downsides. “[You obviously know I can’t let myself be arrested. They likely know who I am now – or at least who I’m not.]”

“[I will keep you safe, do not worry.]”

“[I appreciate it…]” he trailed off. “[Do you have a name?]”

“[I have been given a numerical designation,]” she said. “[Though ‘names’ are not generally bestowed upon us.]”

“[Really?]”

“[‘Ghosts’ as you call us, are not always so conversational with those we work with. Many species simply use us as tools, or to provide them with useful information. Your species is somewhat unique, as many of you have treated us individually despite our synthetic nature and programming.]”

It hadn’t really occurred to him that he was probably speaking to something which was essentially a floating ball of metal with a smart machine intelligence. Still…“[You have a voice and personality,] he shrugged. “[It’d be odd to treat you as a brainless tool. So you need a name. Do you have a preference?]”

“[I do not.]”

“[Fine,]” he paused, glancing upwards. A few possibilities ran through his mind, but one of them sounded better than the others. “[Sagira.]”

The Ghost warbled and her fins twirled. “[I like it. Designation accepted.]”

“[Glad you think so.]”

“[Where did it come from, if I can ask?]”

“[You can probably guess what it means, but where it came from…]” he trailed off briefly. “[There was a friend I had in Australia. A very optimistic, energetic woman. Annoying sometimes, but we got along. I didn’t realize how much I missed her until she died.]” He looked to the Ghost. “[I’ll do my best to make sure you don’t meet her fate.]”

The eye flashed as if blinking. “[And I will do my best not to be annoying.]”

“[I can work with that.]”

There were a few moments of silence.

“[Are you going to head back? You appear to be tired.]”

“[Not yet, Sagira. But soon,]” he looked up into the stars; at the unseen conflict he now knew was raging throughout the galaxy. “[Very soon.]”

***

**TERRA ONE ASSEMBLY AREA | MARS**

Slowly but surely, the starship to take them home was taking shape. It was, Fang reflected, something which he wouldn’t have contemplated at the beginning of this mission, but it made him very optimistic for the future. It had been slow going at first, as the engineers hadn’t known where to start building a legitimate advanced starship.

One with jump drives that were said to take them from Mars to Earth in under an hour. Impossible, so many claimed, until the Ghosts produced schematics from the vast memory banks within the Traveler showing that not only was it possible to do, it was actually _feasible._ Many a mind had been blown at the revelation.

Fang was not an engineer, but those who were had asked for a few formulae from the Ghosts to prove or disprove that these jump drives were legitimate, and when they were, they’d immediately begun brainstorming how best to implement them. Several weeks of putting together a working schematic, determining the materials, and utilizing the Ghost’s capabilities to act as a supercomputer, and now construction was finally starting.

The controlled disassembly of Ares One and the warships was taking place in earnest. Only non-critical parts were being disassembled at the start, with crew quarters, food supply, and kitchen all being left alone since a large portion of the people now on Mars were still staying there.

They fortunately had enough food to last for a very long time, even longer than originally planned since only about a third of the original crew remained. Some of them had started experimenting with growing food on Mars, which seemed to be taking root, amazingly enough. Of course, none of them were technically in any danger since, in theory, the Traveler could manifest anything she desired, but none of them wanted to push their luck.

He was near one of the construction sites now, where the jump drive was being built, while the hull of the ship was being assembled a bit further away. In the absence of most tools, the Ghosts were functioning as a multi-purpose unit, from moving large pieces into place, transmutating materials into other materials (something that they’d not bothered to explain to anyone yet), and welding them in place – all when not serving as computers for the engineers to run their many, many calculations.

A half-dozen other smaller sites were set up around the jump drive one, mostly serving as testbeds for various components of the ship derived from the knowledge the Traveler had provided. Fang couldn’t recall _any_ of the science teams ever being this excited about something before.

If this was just the start, he wondered if they were going to finally enter a golden age of Humanity.

At least for a while.

The darkness he’d seen weighed heavily on him. By the time the vision had commenced proper, it had begun to get overwhelming, where he could see and understand _some_ of what was happening in the abstract, but the voice speaking in his mind had been a mixture of language he could understand and pure gibberish.

Valentin had explained all of it afterwards, and it had made far more sense. It was also very, very scary to consider. None of them believed the Traveler was lying, or if she was, it was the most convincing lie they’d ever seen. Not to mention she had no reason to do so. It wasn’t as though they could do much to stop or threaten her.

He did wonder what would happen next.

There were so many possibilities.

Would the Triumvirate realize the severity of what was coming? They had to. Fortunately his family had significant pull, and for _once_ he felt inclined to use it. If there was ever a time to push for them to do something, it was when literally everything was threatened. The most difficult thing would be convincing them that what he was saying actually wasn’t a drug-induced nightmare.

Well, they’d seen what the Traveler could do. Perhaps that would abate some of the coming skepticism.

A short distance away he saw Valentin standing with Admiral Holliday as they were before a larger group of Ghosts, almost certainly discussing how the starship development was going. Even if Holliday was technically in charge, Valentin had stepped into a leadership role quite easily. Beyond the one Ghost that had been assigned to him, the other Ghosts seemed willing to listen to him.

He managed that aspect, while Holliday kept the rest of the people in line. Valentin had changed from the encounter, there was no question of that. But it was, Fang believed, for the better. He was more confident now, more willing to be assertive when it counted, and interestingly, more optimistic.

The Traveler seemed to have made him an unofficial voice in a way. He’d understood more of the vision than any of the others, the Ghosts responded to him, and he’d set the direction they had taken after the ships had been teleported down. If anyone could discern what the Traveler intended, it was him.

Or maybe it wasn’t and all of them were confused, but they had nothing else to go on.

Speaking of Ghosts…

“[You can come out of hiding,]” he said. “[I know you’re there.]”

The red-colored Ghost materialized in front of him in a blue flash. Everyone after they’d returned had soon found themselves with a personal Ghost companion. Or observer, depending on how one looked at it. There were still an unknown number of Ghosts, but certainly enough for each of them.

Fang hadn’t been entirely comfortable with the drone at first, but over the past weeks, it’d actually not been terrible. It seemed to know when he wanted it around, and when he didn’t. Many times it didn’t feel like it was around at all, but whenever he needed it, it appeared right in front of him.

Hence why he called it Shadow. Something always around, but not always visible or obvious. The Ghost had also modified his shell slightly, something Fang had inquired about. It looked better in red, and he felt like his personal observer having the colors of the Empire would make a better first impression.

“[You appeared to be deep in thought,]” Shadow spoke, a male voice which now held a cultured Chinese accent, something he hadn’t exactly _specified_, but that the Ghost had naturally tailored over time. He didn’t exactly know _how_ the Ghost knew this, but it wasn’t bad.

“[Yes, I was, but I can’t stay that way forever,]” Fang grunted. “[You’ve never explained how you appear and disappear like that. Some kind of cloaking?]”

The fins of the Ghost briefly detached and returned as if surprised. For a bunch of mechanical drones with static architecture, the Ghosts were incredibly expressive. “[Nothing so crude? I merely fold space-time to return to the Traveler, and return when needed. Or ‘teleportation’ if you prefer.]”

Fang rubbed his eyes. “[I don’t feel like asking if that ‘space-time’ comment was a joke or not. But teleporting makes sense.]”

“[Indeed,]” Shadow’s fins inclined forward. “[I anticipate that construction of Terra One will finish within several weeks. And then you will be back on Earth.]” It twitched. “[I have seen images, though I look forward to seeing it for myself.]”

“[It is beautiful,]” he agreed. “[It’s funny. I haven’t really been back to Earth in years. I was only sent back just to board Ares One, and then I was back in space.]”

“[Where were you before?]”

“[Stationed on the Moon,]” he explained. “[Was there for quite some time, relatively speaking. I enjoyed it, don’t get me wrong, but I do miss China. Being here has reminded me that. Like Earth, but just…not the same.]”

“[I can understand that,]” the fins twirled. “[Though I am only a recent creation, and have not known much beyond the Traveler’s embrace. I have found the exterior to be quite intimidating, but also exciting.]”

“[Good to know even machines have the spirit of adventure,]” Fang smiled. “[I hope everything works out in the end.]”

“[You do not believe it will?]”

“[I don’t know. My government is…flawed, you could say. One reason I preferred staying on the Moon for a time. Easier than going back. But maybe now that can change. Things cannot stay the same; not with what we saw.]”

“[You were chosen by Her for a reason,]” the Ghost reminded him. “[You can speak to your people what they need to hear.]”

“[Let’s hope her faith isn’t misplaced,]” he said, before turning as he saw one of the engineers coming up to him, one of the Ghosts hovering over her shoulder.

“Sov!”

“Yes?”

“We’ve finished one of the piloting module simulations,” she briefly explained. “I’d like an expert opinion on how it functions.”

“Lead the way,” he said, standing and Shadow vanishing once again as he fell into step behind the woman. Break time over, there was a lot that still had to be done.

***

**TERRA ONE OVERLOOK | MARS**

The days on Mars had been, overall, very pleasant. The Traveler no longer stayed in the same place, but had returned to finishing her work on the new Mars. Now much of the land was appropriately covered in vegetation, natural landscapes, and had even fallen into weather patterns, such as heavy rainstorms.

Once she was done here, she would move to the next planet. Valentin didn’t know which one, but he did know that she would be aware of how things progressed in her stead. She had no need to go directly to Earth when her chosen speakers would convey the message she had brought. Them, as well as the Ghosts.

Overlooking the finished Terra One, Valentin was struck at how far they’d come in a matter of weeks. Granted, they’d had access to machines and resources which could be created on a whim and pieced together with otherworldly quickness, but it was still something which amazed him.

It wasn’t just Terra One which had been built. The Outposts which had been established had been similarly fortified and redesigned with the help of the Ghosts. Whenever the Triumvirate returned, they would find outposts all ready to go, with some of the Ghosts promising to keep an eye on things.

At his request. The unassigned Ghosts were receptive to him. He was surprised the Traveler was willing to give him even this limited authority. Perhaps she trusted him not to overstep his bounds, of which he was careful to do. Even if he was selected by her for some purpose, it did no good to abuse that trust.

The ship was far smaller than Ares One had been, and more reminiscent of the sleek wing designs of popular science fiction than the cylindrical, bulky rockets of Orion. This ship didn’t have to worry about things like months of food and fuel storage, nor were the materials the same as those on Earth, but a composite alloy augmented by the Ghosts.

No doubt the Triumvirate would immediately try and determine the exact molecular composition when they got their hands on it. It was still a large ship for sure, but one primarily designed for transport, not long-term travel. One he’d had a large hand in completing. Amanda had been very helpful through the entire process, and was far better at organizing the actual people than he was.

She hadn’t achieved her rank for nothing.

“It’s quite impressive,” Liana said beside him. “You did good work.”

“Not just me, everyone.”

She snorted. “I can’t say I did much more than test out some of the hull durability…by shooting it.”

He chuckled. “Every little bit helps.”

“I guess so.”

He waited a few moments. “Are you sleeping better?”

She shifted in place. “Better, yes. Thanks for asking. The nightmares still come but…” she waved a hand vaguely. “I mostly forget the details when I wake up. Just the existential dread of the end of everything left, and I’m almost used to that now.”

Of all of them, Liana had been the one who’d suffered the most negative effects from the vision…or at least some unique ones. It ranged from her unexpectedly spacing out, to having horrific formless nightmares, to feeling compulsion to draw incomprehensible images of things she’d seen or remembered in the Traveler.

The experience had definitely affected her mind. It’s been troubling at first, though the Ghosts had assured them that it was something that would pass eventually, and that it was completely normal. It had indeed subsided over the weeks, though Valentin really didn’t like seeing her go through it. But there was nothing that could really be done.

Their minds had seen things that were not meant to be seen.

He doubted she would want to return, if ever given the opportunity.

“Is he helping you?”

“Mike? Definitely.” She said, holding out a hand, and the Ghost which had been assigned to her materialized, looking up at him almost like a puppy. It was colored blue and white, colors of the Space Force and not surprising that Liana had given it her own look. Though the name she’d given to it would always be amusing.

“I am available whenever she needs to talk,” the Ghost said, it’s voice so uniquely _odd_ in its deepness and suave baritone. The voice was the reason she’d given it the name, saying it was almost exactly like one of her old drill instructors. Given how the voice sounded, he wasn’t surprised it had made an impression on her, and now it was immortalized in a floating magic space ball.

“You talk with yours a lot?” She asked.

“Mine? Quite a lot,” he mused. “They’re actually good companions. Helpful in a lot of ways, and good listeners.”

“Yeah,” she rubbed her wrists. “I wonder what they’re going to say about them. About all of this.”

“A lot of questions,” he mused, glancing at her. “You’ll probably have an easier time of it than me. I don’t see the KGB liking a lot of what I have to say. Or at least heavily questioning it.”

“Admittedly, what we saw _would_ sound crazy but…” she shrugged. “But it isn’t. Hopefully all of them will see that.”

“Hopefully,” he agreed, once more looking down on the ship that would take them home. “I suppose we’ll find out, soon enough.”

There was a moment of lasting silence. “Everything is going to change when we get back,” Liana said slowly. “But what that looks like…I’m not really sure what form it will take.”

“With what the Traveler knows?” Valentin wondered. “I suppose we’ll learn what the perfect society is. Or at least the one the Triumvirate has in mind for the world.”

“I wonder if it’ll be one the Traveler will approve of.”

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “But when it happens, we will know. One way or another.”

***

**OFFICE OF THE GENERAL SECRETARY | MOSCOW | SOVIET UNION**

Weeks had now passed, and there was still nothing.

In his mind, there were two possibilities.

Well, three if he wanted to entertain an absurd one.

Possibility one, all of them were dead. Killed either by the Traveler or they had starved or otherwise perished. That would most easily explain why there had been no contact whatsoever, and why the Traveler hadn’t bothered doing anything since then. It was still hovering over Mars, having resumed its terraforming activities in the previous weeks as if there was nothing different.

He was still somewhat skeptical of this because that would indicate a hostility that the Traveler had not _completely_ shown. Yes, she’d sent back a majority of Ares One, but it had been ultimately harmless. If anything was shown by that episode, it was that the alien had very _particular_ individuals she was interested in, though the criteria was still elusive.

Possibility two, they were alive, and were trying to come back. Admittedly a weaker theory because there was no evidence to support it other than the fact that whoever was left would most likely not want to stay on Mars forever. It certainly wasn’t as though Ares One was _incapable _of making a return journey – though since it was gone, maybe they were stuck trying to build something to get back.

It was why the creation of an Ares Rescue had been coming up more and more in recent weeks. Ares One going down could be an explanation for why there’d been no contact. Perhaps the communications array had been too damaged, and the outpost signals were simply too weak. No one was quite willing to write everyone off, but at the same time, they were wary of sending _another_ ship there, especially since the Traveler had almost certainly removed Ares One from the equation. It didn’t help that satellites and drones they’d launched to try and get current images of Mars were flat-out rejected by the Traveler, and days later they were found on launch pads. Cloud cover and storms on Mars made it difficult to get even telescope images.

It begged the question of what the Traveler’s goal was, assuming they were alive and wanting to come back. Was she holding them hostage? If so, why not make demands? Was she trying to help them get back? If so, why not simply teleport them? There were too many things which didn’t make sense.

The third possibility, and by far the most conspiratorial, was that they were establishing a non-Triumvirate power on Mars, and were perhaps under the control of the alien. It certainly seemed to have that capability, and the Triumvirate Intelligence investigation had made a proposal which had raised the eyebrows of every intelligence official and head of state.

Namely, that the individuals who remained were perhaps not as reliable as he had originally assumed. While none could doubt they were Triumvirate citizens they were not, strictly speaking, _loyal_ ones. They were not necessarily believers, either in the Triumvirate or nation they came from.

People who were vulnerable to potentially seeing the Triumvirate as something…less than ideal. People who may be more idealistic than was necessary, or held private beliefs. Multiple background investigations conducted in the weeks had uncovered the uncomfortable truth that these were not necessarily people who should be influenced by an alien power.

Now, that was, of course, conspiratorial.

But there were several factors that made him, and several others, wonder. The severing of all communication. The people left on the planet had the knowledge and capability to construct new equipment, if not repair existing equipment. The alien had significant powers, or ‘paracausality’ as the scientists insisted it be referred to as. Telepathic capabilities could be in its repertoire. The alien had also shown no interest in communicating further, and the Ghost sightings had dropped to nothing.

But he still couldn’t get past the fact that this was far too much theatre for an alien like this to bother with. It seemed pointless, unless the goal was simply to establish another state. But again, _why_?

It was almost to the point where there were serious talks being had about simply holding a memorial day, making sure no one asked questions, and covertly working on another method to reach Mars and contact the Traveler. It could easily be spun as an accident, and the general public was calming down, since the official story going out was that the team that remained was in contact and negotiations were proceeding.

Lies, but no one had the authority or willingness to challenge the narrative. More stories were planted and coordinated Triumvirate-wide, namely about where the Traveler would go next, what the weather of Mars could be like, and interviews with many of the returned people, who had been elevated to minor celebrities, many of whom seemed much more eager to focus on that, and less about what they’d seen.

Preferable to him. Anything to stop a critical mass of people asking questions right now.

They’d even managed to turn the previously troublesome civilian journalists into an asset, by incentivizing game-like ‘Capture that Ghost!’ social media hunts, to get any glimpse of where the Traveler may be interested in. A few more similar contests were run by shell companies to gather more obscure information, such as hobbyist astrological images, some of which gathered things state-run observatories did not.

Unfortunately, very little of worth had been acquired.

What to do now…

A knock sounded at his door. He glanced at the time, frowning. No appointments for a few hours yet, which meant that this could signal new information. “[Come in,]” he called, as the door was almost flung open and Luka rushed in.

“[General Secretary,]” he saluted.

“[What is it?]”

“[They’re back.]”

Clovis was immediately on his feet. No ambiguity about who ‘they’ could be. “[Where? How?]”

“[NASA verified these images ten minutes ago, they’re being passed to the rest of the Triumvirate,]” he said, opening up the file and spreading several images onto Clovis’s desk. It looked like a spacecraft, and it was clearly in orbit, but it definitely was _not_ Ares One. This was much smaller and sleeker; more reminiscent of a wing craft than a long-term spacecraft.

“[Did it appear out of thin air?]” he demanded. “[How did we miss this?]”

“[Based on what NASA is saying, that’s _literally_ what happened,]” Luka emphasized. “[It appeared out of nowhere and began approaching Earth before entering into an orbit. It also began broadcasting this message on Space Force frequencies.]”

He held up a phone as the recording played. “_To all Triumvirate forces, this is Admiral Amanda Holliday of Ares One. We were of the Mars Expedition to make contact with Enigma One. We are alive and standing by for landing at a designated zone. Repeat, this is Admiral Amanda Holliday, of the Ares One expedition, standing by for landing.”_

The voice switched to another female one with an Indian accent. “[She repeats the same message in Indian. We are assuming this woman to be Chief Linguist Mihaylova; voice comparison is ongoing. The message is also followed by the same one in Russian and Chinese, likely by Valentin and Sov respectively as both voices were male.]”

“[Has a response been sent?]”

“[No, I brought this directly to you. I was unsure if you wanted to wait for a coordinated Triumvirate response or get them on the ground immediately.]”

“[Get them down!]” Clovis barked. “[And mobilize the Red Legion, KGB, and everyone you can think of wherever they’re directed. I want that entire area locked down. We still have that infiltrator on board, and no one is leaving that ship until we know exactly what happened. I’ll deal with the other heads of state if they have a problem.]”

Luka salute. “[It will be done, General Secretary.]”

Without wasting any more time, Luka turned on his heel and departed, a phone to his ear as he spoke rapidly; relaying the orders of his superior. Clovis returned to his seat, his fingers instinctively dialing the number of President Quinn.

A spacecraft which had appeared out of nowhere, carrying their missing people.

The time for answers was coming, and Clovis had a feeling that whatever they had to share would change everything. From this point on, there was no going back.

It was important that they prepared for the best – and for the worst.

***

TO BE CONTINUED IN **INTERLUDE I | DUALITY**


	9. Interlude I | Duality

**TITANOMACH I | TRIUMVIRATE**

***

**INTERLUDE I | DUALITY**

***

**PALACE OF THE DUALITY | THE ETERNAL DREAM**

Boots made quiet steps upon the tiled floor, where the thousands of individual colored pieces came together to form an image upon which many of the Awoken tread each day. The high arches and the placement of the lenses allowed the ethereal light to shine down through the transparent ceiling, giving the tiled artwork an almost glittering appearance.

The Dream was and always would be otherworldly, and all architecture was designed to emphasize that fact.

A place where time stood still.

Doors made of clouded crystal and obsidian laid before each entryway, guarded by the Black and Bright Guard respectively. The constant theme of light and darkness played throughout the edifice, both intertwining in the symbolic designs and patterns at play. An architectural manifestation of the duality that was carefully maintained.

The Palace was not empty, of course. Thousands came and went as their duties required, though the noise was muted, and conversation carried out in hushed tones. It was not done out of secrecy or shame, but a tempered respect for those who ruled. Each part of the Palace was not closed off from the others, so the sounds would carry throughout the vaunted halls, and all the way to the Throne Room itself.

There were no secrets here.

The King was always listening.

As was he.

Uldren Sov paid little attention to the small groups of Awoken he passed, nor those who stood before the entrances throughout the Palace. Though he was aware of the eyes upon him; the slight glances that lasted only a moment. Even among the Awoken he maintained a presence around him, though only one he permitted.

It had been some time since they had seen him, no doubt. Such was the temporal effect of the Dream. For them it had been years, perhaps even a decade, but for him it had only been a fraction of time beyond. It largely mattered little; little of import often happened between the visits.

The Dream was maintained and controlled. It could not be tampered with.

All under Huginn’s eternal watch. The Will of the Dream would not be denied.

Perhaps they stared and watched for other reasons. There were expectations for the Master of Crows. A shawl overtop an intricately woven vest, colored in the blacks and blues of the organization of men he led. A singular pistol rested in a holster, a prize taken from one of the Guardians who’d become a bit too inquisitive. A fool who had deeply underestimated the capabilities of his assigned target.

They would doubtless be mystified as to the loss. A concern for the future, perhaps.

Yet what drew the stares was not the attire, but how he appeared. Hair as black as the namesake of his title, maintained and prepared for the audience; skin the color of a dark blue sky, black veins which pushed out of the skin around his neck; veins which visibly pulsed ever so slightly. It was not a simple visual of the infection, but one which he felt with each ponderous heartbeat.

Each heartbeat which pumped poison throughout his body. Each acidic pulse which made sleep impossible and pain a relief. Each eternal second where the only solution was to find an outlet. An outlet he would wait patiently to exploit, yet there was no need to do so here. It was not the place or time.

The Dream dulled the poison. His heart beat slower as the corruption struggled against the laws of the Dream. In the end, it did not matter.

So he would endure; the price to pay for this power.

Even still, the acrid oil ate along the edges of his mind.

And when the bystanders looked into his eyes, they saw not the yellow of a healthy Awoken male, but eyes sullied in deep pollution. Black capillaries spiderwebbed across the iris which shifted with each blink. It was unhealthy to let the corruption reach such a state, but he had learned his limits so long ago.

He would endure for a while longer. Just until the audience. Then it would be purged and he could breathe and taste again. Then he would be able to feel something beyond the coursing acid as the corruption yearned to break down and rebuild his physical body into something more befitting of the Logic.

But the Logic served him.

He had made it so.

Decades within the Dream had allowed him to shape it to achieve what he desired. It was what granted him the title he now bore. As there were no secrets in the Palace from the King, there were none from the Master of Crows. From the moment he had stepped into the Palace, he could hear the whispers of a thousand conversations, each clear to his elevated physiology, though overwhelming in their numbers.

If he wished, he could focus on one. Perhaps two.

Perhaps listen to an argument between an Aeterna and a Cryptarch over paracausal theory. Perhaps empathize with the Bright Guard who lost her daughter to the Pool, comforted by her friend. Perhaps smile at the crude joke between two Techeuns. Perhaps listen in attention as the Marauders were briefed on the latest activities of the powers beyond the Dream.

Today though, he would not.

He closed his ears to the noise and walked forward, the only sounds his breathing, his heartbeat, and the soft thuds his boots made upon the walkway. As he approached the Throne Room, the guards who stood before it parted without word, and moved the massive doors open. Upon crossing the threshold, the doors soundlessly closed behind him.

The Throne Room was different from the rest of the Palace. Much of the room had no true walls, but a dome-like structure carved out of glass which allowed the Duality to look out upon the Eternal Dream which they ruled. The jade twinking nebulaes proudly displayed in the everlasting night sky shone beautifully down; a vision of majesty that Uldren had missed when outside the Dream.

There were many beautiful places beyond this realm, but none matched its breathtaking wonder. The thrones upon which the Duality sat were separated, requiring the audience in question to first walk between them and turn to face them; to stand before the thrones angled to view the outside, with the landscape and city of the Waking Dream behind them as they faced the masters of their kind.

Each throne was highly elevated above the ground floor, with steps ascending to it at all angles. For most, the thrones themselves would dwarf those who sat within them in sheer scale; yet the Duality held the presence of rulers, for they dominated the Throne Room, and all else fell away.

But despite their grandeur, they held not the highest place here.

Just barely visible from the place he now stood, were five seats which looked down upon the Duality and those they spoke with from the highest parts of this royal chamber. Five seats that so often remained empty, yet which could seat the Dragon Riders or the illusionary avatars of the Seekers, should they wish to personally observe.

Their benefactors were owed such respect and reverence.

Very often all of the seats were empty. The Seekers were often occupied by other matters, and the Duality conveyed the matters of true importance at a later time, but today there was one who sat in the center seat. A female figure, skin as clear as porcelain, unnaturally white, who watched in unspoken and etheric elegance. Her eyes ablaze in draconic crystal flame.

Not one of the Riders then. An illusion.

Riven’s illusion, specifically.

The Seeker of a Thousand Voices had deigned to honor them all with her presence today. He wondered what her interest was, as she typically did not concern herself with the affairs of the Crows.

** _Approach, Uldren Sov._ **

He obeyed the voice that manifested in his mind.

Uldren walked between the thrones and reached the designed center of audience before them, conveniently marked by the tile arranged before the exalted thrones. As was expected, he fell to one knee, angling himself towards the throne of the King he answered to. Only a few seconds passed before the next expected words came.

**“Rise, Uldren Sov.”**

The familiar voice of raw power and authority; gravitas drawn from the Deep itself. An all encompassing; all powerful sound which echoed deep in the minds of all who heard. A voice that did not speak much, but one which all would listen to.

He stood and properly beheld Iral Jox, Born of the Nightmare, Master Sorcerer, Overseer of Crows, Lord of the Marauders, Wielder of the Wrath, Commander of the Dragon, and King of the Dark. A male who had reached the pinnacle of what one could achieve in the Waking Dream. The first King to come from the Nightmare, and perhaps one of the most powerful to exist because of that.

If his usage of telepathy practiced by that order was anything to go by, he had not let his skills atrophy.

Dressed in the intricately layered robes of black and silver, it was not his attire which projected authority, but the sheer presence of the master of the Logic and the darkness it had slaved. His skin was a full shade darker than Uldren’s own, and the whites of the eyes were swirling ebony lakes, yet their piercing golden irises blazed, untainted by corruption. His hair fell to his shoulders, unbound and still.

The corruption in him reacted to the King, abating in his presence, as the darkness that ate his mind called out to its rightful master; and there was only one word Uldren could properly use to describe him; a word which his mind screamed out.

_Majestic._

With his first duty complete, he turned to the second throne and fell to a knee once more. While his first loyalty would always be to his King, his heart would forever be with his sister. She spoke the words a few seconds later.

_“Rise, brother.”_

Her voice was far softer, though still held the steel of unquestionable authority. The voice was not quite so overpowering, yet it wormed its way through his mind all the same; the pleasant melody something none wanted to forget, and thus their minds would remember.

He stood again and beheld Mara Sov, Born of the Stars, Master Techeun, Lady of the Light, Commander of the Stars, Paladin-Master, Granter of the Wish, Voice to the Beyond, and the Queen of Starlight. Though she lacked the unique background of her counterpart, his sister had been destined for this since she had sat upon the Eternal Council as the most powerful Techeun alive.

She sat in stark contrast to her counterpart; where the King sat still and firm, she sat more relaxed, one leg crossed over the other. Her clothing was a blend of robe and vest, colored the purples and blues of those she directly oversaw, with ribbons and woven fabric interlaced around the arms and shoulders. An amulet hung from her neck, the Sov family heirloom now given to her.

She almost glowed in ethereal light, her skin a pale, luminescent shade of blue, which looked almost white in the light that shown from the outside. The irises of her eyes similarly gleamed a pure white, making it difficult for one to look directly into them, so fiercely did they burn. Hair as white as her eyes fell from her head, cropped and angled around her face, and ironically shorter than her counterpart.

His sister looked down at him. _“Speak, brother. Share what you have learned.”_

“Yes, my Queen,” he cleared his throat. “The Guardians are beginning to rebuild in earnest. Expand. The Moon is once more under their control. Teams are being sent to Mercury, Venus, and Mars as we speak. Their numbers are similarly growing again.”

She nodded. _“It is only a matter of time until they reach the Reefs. The Dreaming Cities if we are not prepared.”_

**“Their expansion threatens the third phase.”**

“Perhaps, but the Vanguard is more occupied with the Vex and Hive resurgence. They have yet to show a desire to breach the Reefs,” Uldren amended. “Though I was tracked by one of the Hunters and killed him. They will not ignore that.”

**“The Perfect Circle knows then. The Hunters will begin investigations. The Vanguard will fall into line soon enough.”**

“A risk, but as I said, the Vanguard is also focused on…other matters,” Uldren said, thinking about how best to phrase this. “They have begun to experiment with the Logic.”

Both of the Duality seemed ever-so-slightly caught off guard by this revelation. The King leaned forward. **“You are certain?”**

“Yes.”

_“Unusual. The Vanguard have been historically resistant to investigating the Logic. Curious that they have reconsidered.”_

“They likely see it as a necessary evil. But they are committed. A new Order of Guardians has been created for this purpose.”

_“And they are called what?”_

“The Forsaken.”

The King’s lips grew into a thin smile. **“How very appropriate.”**

“The Vanguard has been appropriately expanded as well. Even as this Order is under…heavy supervision.”

_“As expected. Still, this could prove troublesome once they understand the full power the Logic provides.”_

**“Indeed.”**

“There is more,” Uldren said. “Rasputin is active. The Seraphs have recently made contact with the Vanguard.”

The King leaned back. **“So the Seraphs endure.”**

“Or new ones. It is unclear if he has constructed them in the aftermath of the war against the Darkness, or if they were an existing contingency.”

_“Knowing the capabilities of this machine, it is likely both. Troubling. We had presumed him destroyed.”_

“He is not. I can confirm this.”

_“Then he will also explore. Rasputin will not be so considerate as the Vanguard when he learns of our true capabilities.”_

**“He will explore past the threshold of the Reefs. The third phase will be discovered if precautions are not taken.”**

_“Then we will need to anticipate his movements.”_

**“No matter what, the machine cannot be allowed to breach the Eternal Dream.”**

Mara waved a hand. _“He nor his Seraphs will breach the Vault. Their minds will flee should they try and comprehend the puzzle, nor will the Seekers let them enter. The Eternal Dream is secure.”_

**“We would do well to not underestimate the machine.”**

“No, but I believe there is yet time before attention is turned to us,” Uldren said. “In addition to the Logic, the Vex have also begun attracting Guardian interest on Mercury. They have resurged since Osiris vanished on an expedition to investigate.”

The King narrowed his eyes. **“Osiris is missing?”**

“Yes. The Vanguard has yet to determine their response.”

**“We should keep watch over this. The Vex remain an unknown factor and Osiris was one of their most valuable. We would do well to remain informed.”**

“_Perhaps use this as an opportunity to cultivate non-aggressive ties with the Vanguard?”_

**“Deliberately expose ourselves?”**

_“A close entity is one whose knowledge can be controlled.”_

**“Perhaps. Consultation with the Seekers and Eternal Council is required.”**

_“I have one more question, brother – how stands the Traveler?”_

“No change. She remains comatose, even if the Ghosts have returned. The Speaker has made no proclamation. Her continued status is likely a factor in why they allowed the exploration of the Logic.”

_“The Ghosts signal her healing. It is not a matter of if, but when. If the Speaker is still communicating with her, then nothing is happening without her consent.”_

“I cannot speak for either, only relay what I know.”

**“You have done well, Master of Crows. Your rest is earned,”** the King looked down upon him. **“The corruption has taken root in you.”**

“I am aware. It was necessary.”

**“Purge it immediately.”**

_“Go to the Lake,”_ Mara said gently. _“We will speak more later, o brother mine.”_

He once more bowed, first to the King, and then his Queen, though only the King had the power to dismiss him. The yellow irises of the sun bored into his own as the dismissal was given.

**Cleanse yourself of the corruption, and your next task will be given. Now go, o shadow mine. Azirim awaits your offering.**

***

**THE LAKE OF BLACK | THE ETERNAL DREAM**

Ahead was the Lake.

Isolated from the city proper, it was hidden within a landscape of trees and winding mountain trails. The green ethereal light above shone down, making the walk a scenic and pleasant one. The descent now approached, and he could see the Lake of Black at the bottom of the immaculate stairwell.

Calling it a ‘Lake’ was, of course, a slight exaggeration. A depression in the ground, formed into the shape of a perfect circle comprised the Lake; made out of hewn stone. It was not deep, the liquid would barely reach past the waists of even the shortest of males. A ramp led to the center of the Lake, and a small barrier of stone rimmed the outside.

As usual, there was only one present.

Argax Liwei had been the Sorcerer assigned to oversee the Lake of Black for as long as he could remember. He had overseen Uldren’s own Rite, and many more who had since followed. Garbed in the familiar robes of red and black, a hood shrouded his face, making the yellow irises which peered out even more illuminated.

“Uldren. Welcome home.”

“Thank you, Argax.”

The eyes peered at him. “I can see why you have come. You have let it spread.”

“Such was necessary. I remain its master.”

“For now, Master Crow. The Deep will call, and you will hear its song. Do not believe you may push further than you are capable.”

“I am aware, Sorcerer. I have refrained from refining the Logic in this state.”

“You show some wisdom yet. Let us not waste more time.”

Uldren walked to a nearby table and began stripping down, while setting a small pack of fresher clothes nearby. His holster and weapon were set off first, followed by the ornamental pieces of clothing and gear. Boots, gloves, armor, underclothing were all taken off and carefully folded from when he emerged. It would do little good for them to be consumed in the Lake.

Argax appraised the disrobed Awoken, eyes drawn to his chest.

Uldren did not blame him. While the darkened veins on his neck had been visible, they were only a portion of how the corruption had taken over his body. Much of his chest was mired in the dark rot and visibly pulsed with each heartbeat; the oil-filled veins running along his arms and down his legs. His body excreted a foul-smelling sweat-like liquid, especially on the palms of his hands and soles of his feet.

He said nothing though, and simply took his place at the north side of the Lake, opposite the ramp which Uldren descended. The liquid within the Lake was clear for now, as this was a Cleansing Ritual, not a Rite. It was not the first time he had been here, and it would not be the last.

Reaching the center of the Lake, he knelt, the cool liquid coming up to his neck, and after closing his eyes, laid down and submerged himself in the Lake. The Sorcerer would begin his work now, a process which Uldren had not been taught, nor personally witnessed. Only the Rites usually had watchers.

Days which would end in celebration or sorrow, depending on the outcome.

He felt it when the Sorcerer finished his incantation. A looming mind which dwarfed his own touched; a mind from which a trillion souls called out; slaved to the one overarching intelligence. Azirim had come to feast. The leviathan often did not directly communicate with those in the Lake, yet by proxy Uldren sometimes heard the voices of those who had been dissolved in the Lake and their minds swallowed by the Speaker of the Dead.

It was a wholly discomforting sensation; the feeling of pinpricks on his brain; a maddening itch that he could not reach without tearing his skull apart. Punctures along his body also sprouted, and his numbed nerves simply felt the pressure. He did not know what happened during this part, for his eyes remained closed. He imagined it as a swarm of insects which ran along and stung, and with each sting, the darkness coursing through his body leaked out.

Azirim did not just eat the corruption, of course. Such was a risk that came with the Cleansing. Other pieces of the mind might take the Seeker’s fancy; emotions, feelings, and memories. It was not uncommon for gaps in memory to formulate after this ritual. Not always, but any man soon learned the importance of a journal to always remember the memories they most valued.

The end was coming. His body was clamped together by dark bonds, and he gasped as it felt like a spike was stabbed into his heart. A spike, or perhaps a talon from the Dragon that lurked in the Deep. The force of it propelled him up, and he burst from the liquid, and proceeded to vomit, spewing an unsightly black substance into the Lake.

The final expulsion of corruption.

Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, Uldren took his first breath of air. The Lake was no longer pristine, but laced with the black bile of his body, though now harmless. A quick glance down at his form confirmed that the corruption was gone. He could still feel the edges of the darkness on his mind, but far away. The call of the Deep was simply a part of him, one which would continually grow as this cycle was repeated.

A part of him to be curated and pruned, not purged.

But it felt good to not have his veins laced with acid and his mouth not coated in foul sludge. He walked the ramp out of the Lake, and to only his mild surprise saw a familiar figure waiting for him. A woman clad in silver and green plate armor, with a cape that fell from her shoulders, and a sword made out of crystal hung on her hip.

A figure straight out of an old Earth legend, yet the Dragon Riders played on such myths and had developed an affinity for them. While she lacked the ethereal glow of Mara, she was nonetheless a luminescent figure, as were all women who emerged from the Pool of Starlight, their hair shocked to white along with their eyes.

A surprise to be sure, but a welcome one. She cocked her head and greeted him with a smile. “That looked worse than usual.”

“It was.”

“Then you’ll definitely need this,” she handed him a mug with steam wafting from the liquid. “If it was that bad, you need a reminder of what good things taste like.”

He took the mug and took a drink. Ah, tea of oranges and raspberries; grown and brewed within the Dream, more potent than they could ever be beyond it. If there was one side effect of the corruption he secretly enjoyed, it was the ability to experience each unique flavor again. According to some, his favorites changed after each Cleansing, though that was something he was not displeased with.

The women did not have to undergo such rituals, as the Starlight did not corrupt, something he suspected they were grateful for, and some of the men were envious of. Yet he felt like he and the other men had a greater appreciation for the smaller details of life. The women would never know the gradual fading of feeling until all they knew was numbness, or the loss of taste and smell. He would not wish it upon anyone, but it had taught him a valuable lesson. One never knew what they had until it was stripped away from them.

All the more important to enjoy it now before it began again.

Sorto Minas appraised him as he drank all of the tea. “You’re welcome.”

He finished, and set the mug down. “Thank you. Truly.”

“Anytime.”

With that done, he began dressing again, pulling out the clean underclothes from his pack. The ones he had worn would be burned. “Are you here for yourself, or does the Bright Lord have a request?”

“Well, both, as it turns out,” she said with a smile. “Word travels fast when the Master of Crows returns. I certainly needed to see you before you left again. You waste very little time despite the Duality likely insisting your rest.”

He grunted, putting his vest back on. “There is much happening beyond.”

“Yes, which is why Eao is specifically interested.”

Uldren narrowed his eyes, meeting her own bright one. “The Seekers usually do not…”

“No, they don’t. Trust me – I know.”

“Go on.”

“The Seekers have not departed the Dream since the formation,” she reminded him. “They want a firsthand assessment, especially with the third phase potentially at risk.”

Uldren could see where this was going. “They are sending the Dragon Riders.”

“Only one. Me.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Good.”

“I’m touched.”

“I know you. It’s preferable to one of the others who are more distant.”

She smiled brightly. “I do have a certain affinity with you that the others do not.”

“You and Jolyon.”

“I’m pleased to be considered in such esteemed company,” she tapped a finger to her lips. “A pity he is not here to join us.”

Indeed, it had been too long since Uldren had seen his friend of old. Responsibilities had pulled them apart, as Jol was content to remain an operative while he had ascended to Master of Crows. “We all must fulfill our duties.”

“As the Seekers decree.”

There was a brief pause .

“You will accompany me, I presume?”

“Unless you would prefer otherwise?”

He shrugged. “Unnecessary, and if the Bright Lord commands it, I will obey regardless.” He fixed her with a critical eye. “Although if my next task remains observation, you will need to find attire less conspicuous.”

She ran an armored glove through her hair. “Come now, o companion mine. I’ve seen the armor the Guardians wear. This is hardly eye-catching.”

“I’d prefer not to take that chance.”

“Eh, we’ll work it out,” she waved a hand. “Are you ready?”

He holstered his new pistol. “Ready now. We can head back.”

She noticed the weapon. “I don’t think you had that before.”

“I didn’t. Took it from a Hunter.”

“And by took…”

“I’ll tell you on the way. It’s a long story.”

***

**THE TOWER | SANCTUARY CITY | EARTH**

It was a natural break in the story and the Speaker had stood and briefly taken a moment to check on something Patriot-3 didn’t know the details of. A question which had taken form in her mind came out; something she wanted to know as he had spoken. “Were you there?”

“Yes.”

So he had been one of the first. Although it still sounded as though the Guardians had not existed at this point of the story. Yet if she was from that period…it also meant that other things _had_ existed. “I suppose the Triumvirate wasn’t as welcoming to the Traveler as she had hoped.”

The Speaker shut down the console he was at, and hesitated slightly before answering. “Not exactly. It was not so…blatant as that. They feared Her from the start. These men and women were not fools in the conventional sense. They knew better than to openly defy Her wishes. But they…let us say, they underestimated Her in many ways. Their hubris ultimately caused their downfall.”

The Exo shifted in her seat. “Do you think they could have…gotten away with it?”

His voice was melancholic. “Yes…though not in the way you are likely thinking. There are many factors to consider in what happened. This story could have gone many different ways. It would have been very easy for people to make different decisions. The outcome was not predestined, I do not believe that.”

He turned his masked face to her. “I wonder, does any of what I say sound familiar? Do you recall anything?”

Patriot-3 shook her head. “No. Nothing.”

“Unsurprising, but stranger things have happened. The minds of Exos have surprised me before.”

Patriot-3 didn’t really have a response to that. She wished she could be one of the surprising ones, but in reality, whoever she had been was lost forever. Nonetheless the story being told painted a very…bleak image of the past. One which had changed with the arrival of the Traveler.

She wondered exactly what had happened, what had led to her creation. But she would wait for the story to reach that point. The Speaker had just returned to take a seat when the doors to his chambers were suddenly opened and two figures strode through, an Exo and a woman.

“Speaker, you have a minute?” The Exo said before suddenly stopping once he saw her sitting down. “Oh…crap. Sorry, didn’t know you had company.”

The Exo was clearly a more advanced model than she was. He towered a full head over the Speaker and woman beside him. His chassis was primarily colored blue, though white and gold were accented throughout. He wore a leather-like vest with a pistol holstered at his hip. A tight-form hood covered his head, though not quite enough to completely cover the odd horn that jutted from his forehead.

The woman beside him shook her head and sighed. “This is why you knock first.”

“How was I supposed to-look, I said I was sorry,” he brought a fist to his mouth and gave a mimic of a cough for some reason as he looked at her. “Sorry again, Vanguard business. ‘Very urgent’ as my colleague insisted.” He finished with a pointed glance at the woman beside him.

“Do not attempt to put this on me!” She demanded in a sharp voice.

“I’m sorry,” the Exo said in a tone which signaled he was going to make a point he thought was good. “Was it _me_ that dragged me out of a meeting saying ‘The Speaker must be told this at once’? Hmm?”

The woman just made a disgusted noise. She seemed wholly the opposite of the more boisterous Exo. She wore some kind of brown robe, with a hardened chestpiece which bore some kind of painted symbol, almost like a four-petaled flower. A shawl-like hoodpiece covered her head. Sharp green eyes were set in a pale-skinned face that seemed set in a somber expression.

“Enough,” the Speaker stood. “Apologies for the intrusion. This is Cayde-6 and Eris Morn. Both of the Vanguard.”

Cayde-6 raised a hand. “Hi.”

“Hello,” Patriot-3 inclined her head.

The Speaker sighed. “What is the situation?”

Cayde-6 cocked his head, his blue electric irises appraising her. “No offense to you miss…”

“Patriot-3.”

“Patriot-3 – got it,” he gave a thumbs up. “No offense, but this is not necessarily something for all ears, if you know what I’m saying.”

“Very well,” the Speaker said, looking at the duo. “I do not intend for this to take long.”

“Take your time,” Patriot-3 waved her hand. “I won’t be going anywhere.”

“I appreciate the consideration,” the Speaker said. “Cayde, Eris. Come with me then.” Both of them followed the Speaker as he ascended the circular staircase to one of the higher rooms, leaving her alone. Or at least the illusion of solitude.

She wondered what had happened that they’d needed to be so rudely interrupted.

Oh well, whatever it was, it was probably important.

***

**THE TOWER | SANCTUARY CITY | EARTH**

On the upper floor of his chamber, the Speaker turned to the two interrupting Vanguard after ensuring the room was sealed. Cayde crossed his arms, his electronic eyes expanding and retracting a few times. “So – what dark pit did you drag _her_ out of. Because good lord, that model brings back some memories.”

“Triumvirate, yes?” Eris inquired.

“Yeah. Triumvirate.”

Eris Morn had been born long after the Triumvirate War, and even after the Collapse. She lacked the context that he and Cayde had…though Cayde’s memory was also incomplete in some cases. He remembered enough though. Enough that something like Patriot-3 would trigger some dark memories.

“A good question,” the Speaker said, clasping his hands in front of him. “She came here herself. Found and repaired by a Ghost and led to me. She appears to remember nothing, so I have been sharing our origin.”

Cayde whistled. “That’s going to take some time.”

“Yes, but I can afford it.”

“Not going to lie,” Cayde glanced to Eris. “Considering one of the things we have to say, this is a bit more than creepy.”

The Speaker motioned. “Go on.”

“So you know what’s funny?” Cayde tapped a finger to his chin. “A whole multitude of Triumvirate-era Exos have suddenly shown up, courtesy of our friendly neighborhood Spider. All damaged, deactivated and overall in bad shape.”

Under his mask, the Speaker frowned. That was unexpected. The Spider rarely sent out expeditions on his own; he was a broker. Scavengers from all across the system came and sold directly to him. He paid a premium for anything related to the Guardians – and in turn sold them back to the Vanguard at a significant markup. “From who?”

“You’re going to _love _this,” Cayde said, in a tone which indicated he was _not_ going to love it. “Exos and Humans, all of whom are new supplies, and all-around sound _suspiciously_ like Seraphs.”

“You are certain?”

“Of _course _not. Rasputin is _only _the smartest sapient intelligence in the system, and wouldn’t leave such an _obvious _trail, _noo_ he’s _way_ too smart and sophisticated to make a mistake like that,” Cayde rolled his eyes, and the Speaker was mildly surprised his mouth wasn’t leaking from how soaked the words were in sarcasm. “But seriously – literally no one else would be interested in digging up old Exos – and I’ll note that these are ones damaged beyond repair. I’m wondering now about how many of them are walking around now – I suspect our amnesic Patriot-3 isn’t the only one.”

“Unlikely,” the Speaker agreed.

“Personally, I think Rasputin knows exactly what he’s doing and he either doesn’t care, or this is some obtuse cerebral message he will use for the next decade to lord his superiority over us,” Cayde commented. “Or he made an oversight. Pick one.”

“I presume you spoke with the Spider about this?”

“Obviously. Next time someone comes selling a broken Exo, he’ll hold them until we get there,” Cayde rested a hand on his pistol. “He wasn’t happy about that, obviously, but considering the alternative was a nice chat with the Perfect Circle, well…” Cayde’s tone took on a self-satisfied lint. “You know, sometimes, I amaze myself with my diplomacy.”

Eris snorted. “Of course you would.”

“I will summon the First Seraph when I finish with Patriot-3,” the Speaker said, his face set in a frown under his mask. “I would hope that Rasputin has a plausible explanation for this. I would prefer our renewed alliance be made on stable ground.”

“I am certain Zavala would be interested in this development,” Eris noted.

“Do you want a war with Rasputin?” Cayde asked sarcastically. “Because that’s how you get a war with Rasputin. There was a _reason_ we’re not mentioning this to him right away. And for the record, if you could get this sorted before he finds out, we’d all appreciate it.”

“He is of the Vanguard,” the Speaker said. “He will be informed, but I will ensure he is kept from doing anything rash.”

“Alright,” Cayde raised his hands in surrender. “But put it in the record that I predicted that Zavala will go ballistic. Don’t blame me when we’re all slaved to the overlord because Zavala couldn’t resist punching the smug Seraph.”

Eris actually smiled at that. “You would have to admit, she would deserve it.”

“Look, I’m not disputing that she is _extremely_ punchable with her cryptic remarks, smug binary chatter, and sheer aura of self-righteousness because Rasputin programmed her a bit higher in the hierarchy,” Cayde defended with a slightly raised voice. “But I will point out that she’s a very _dangerous_ insufferable drone.”

“On that we are agreed.”

“Brays,” Cayde sniffed. “Not even once.”

“This situation will be dealt with,” the Speaker lifted a hand. “What else is there?”

“Ikora has set down on Mercury,” Eris said. “It’s…much worse than we anticipated.”

“As in…?”

“In short? We believe the planet is being converted into…something,” Eris scowled. “Our understanding of the Vex remains limited. But they are swarming the planet.”

“Hostile?”

“Initially, though they’ve backed off from the landing zones.”

“And no sign of Osiris.”

“None. Saint-14 will be leading the first expeditions,” Eris stroked her chin. “But given what’s on Mercury, combined with how little we understand them, I’m concerned our chances of finding him are…low.”

“We won’t give up hope yet,” the Speaker shook his head. That was something they couldn’t afford. If Osiris was lost forever that would be…devastating. Osiris was still alive – the Traveler _knew_ his Ghost was active and it had not been recalled. Yet the fact that he hadn’t returned was troubling. It meant he was somewhere where he could not simply transmat out.

Ikora had enough Warlocks and Titans to take on an entire Eliksni house. However, the Eliksni were nothing like the Vex, who were far more enigmatic and problematic. The forces she had might be insufficient, and their mission might have to be re-evaluated. Once more Osiris seemed to be right.

The Vex were more of an issue than they’d assumed.

He had an annoying habit of being right about these kinds of threats.

“Keep me appraised,” he said. “Is there anything else?”

“Might be something, might not,” Cayde said off-handedly. “Lost one of my agents.”

“Elaborate.”

“I’m not sure if it was an accident or not,” Cayde said placatingly. “We got a tip of some Awoken acting suspiciously – probably one of the spies from…well, wherever they are in the Belt. I put one of the Crystal Wave to follow him, and next week I get a message from the Spider saying that an ‘advanced looking Exo’ was just sold to him.”

Cayde shrugged. “As the story goes, the body was mostly in pieces. The cortex is unrecoverable. He said that the Eliksni who sold it, recovered it in the Belt, in the wreckage of a personal Guardian starship. Not out of the question that he crashed while pursuing the target.”

“This is why even Exos should be given Ghosts.” Eris muttered.

“Hey some of us do have them,” Cayde defended. “But we don’t need them…most of the time. Point being, there’s a chance that the Awoken are spying on us. The Perfect Circle is going to ramp up counter-intel ops on Earth.”

“Understood. You have my approval.”

“I believe that is all that is important,” Eris inclined her head. “I apologize for our untimely interruption.”

“No offense taken,” the Speaker waved a dismissive hand. “I still have duties. You have given me much to consider. Return, and keep me informed of any developments.”

“Yes, Speaker.” Eris said. Cayde just gave a mock salute. The Speaker removed the sealing of the room, and Eris and Cayde both vanished as their Ghosts transmatted them away, leaving him alone.

Quite troubling, what they had said, but many things were these days.

However, he still had a story to tell, and the innocent Exo was patiently waiting below. With his mind heavy, he descended the staircase and saw her still seated, and that she perked up once she saw him approached. “I apologize again for the interruption,” he said, taking his seat once again. “Now, let us continue where we left off.”

***

TO BE CONTINUED IN **CHAPTER VII | DEBRIEF**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: This effectively concludes Act I of Triumvirate. Thanks to everyone whose been reading and enjoying it; it’s been a lot of fun to write and finally publish. There will almost certainly be a break between this chapter and the next one since a couple of my editors are really busy, and won’t have a lot of free time until likely mid-June. I want everyone on board and helping with this, so I’ll be focusing on some other things until then. Apologies for that, but life has certainly been conspiring to make everything more difficult.
> 
> Once again, thank you for reading and stay healthy.


	10. Chapter VII | Debrief

**ACT II | THE TYRANT’S HUNGER**

***

**CHAPTER VII | DEBRIEF**

***

**RESISTANCE COUNCIL CHAMBER | TEL AVIV | ISRAEL**

His escape from the Triumvirate had turned out to be much easier and less dramatic than he’d anticipated. There had been no shortage of stress as he spent time mentally plotting out contingencies, arming himself with a leftover pistol or two, and calculating the potential numbers of soldiers and KGB operatives he would be up against.

Sagira had found his planning amusing, and had told him he hadn’t needed to worry.

Perhaps not, but he didn’t plan on going in without a plan. Even if he had some confidence the Traveler _wouldn’t _let harm come to him, he was not going to make assumptions. Better to plan and not need it, than be in a situation with no plan at all. He could improvise only to a point.

As it turned out, the cheeky Ghost had just teleported him away as they were coming in to land after bringing him to an isolated room on the ship.

“[You could have just _said_ you were going to do that,]” he grumbled as he’d pushed his way into the hidden headquarters.

Sagira had materialized by his shoulder. “[I could have, but you seemed to enjoy planning your way out of an impossible situation. Why interrupt?]”

Cheeky little drone. Not completely wrong. He did enjoy a challenge – though it was always better when said challenge had the potential of _actually_ being possible. Escaping a locked down Triumvirate starship in a Triumvirate controlled area, while _also_ being actively hunted (he refused to believe the Triumvirate hadn’t figured out someone was on Ares One that shouldn’t have been) was an insanity that he would have never attempted normally.

Lucky that it had turned out well in the end.

To say that Hamaza had been _surprised_ to see him show up had been an understatement. Amjah and Liberman were also present, and they seemed equally as stunned that he was back, especially in such a manner. Given that he’d been gone for months, and that there’d been no word after the Traveler had sent most of the Triumvirate back, it wasn’t unreasonable for them to believe he was dead or otherwise incapacitated.

He wasn’t exactly close friends with all of them; their bond was in their mission. Yet this had been a time where those barriers were lessened, and there were some hugs and sighs of relief that went around. After he pulled away from the Ayatollah’s embrace, he looked into the elder’s eyes grimly. “Assemble the Council. We need to talk.”

“Good news or bad?” Liberman asked, both interest and apprehension in his eyes.

Isaiah pursed his lips. “It’s complicated.”

That would have normally been followed by additional questions, but given the situation, it was clearly not the time. Amjah and Hamaza went to recall everyone, and even on such short notice it would be hours before they could arrive. Luckily, Jilla was relatively close, otherwise it might have been days.

In the interim, Liberman caught him up on what had happened in the months he’d been gone.

Surprisingly, it had been fairly quiet. He wasn’t overly surprised; everyone – Triumvirate or otherwise – had been in a holding pattern. Plans, plots, and operations had been laid out, but the Resistance Council was waiting to see what happened next before acting. Though there had been a few interesting events. The Ghost appearances had extended even to the Resistance, as well as the rest of the world. The Triumvirate had also significantly downplayed the mass-return of people, some of which were being paraded around as celebrities.

As usual, exploiting a situation for their benefit, no matter the truth.

One by one they arrived, and finally they were seated. Sagira had kept out of sight, and he still didn’t know if she was simply cloaking herself somehow, or teleporting completely away. All that he _did_ know was that she was aware of what he was doing at all times, and would show herself when the time was right.

As the hours had passed and Liberman and Amjah had updated him on everything, he was struck by just how…_small_ it all was. Before this, his whole world had been the insurgency against the Triumvirate; it had been this world. Anything that was beyond it simply didn’t _matter;_ as how could it matter? Why worry about the unknown when the known posed a mortal threat?

But now he _did_ know.

And everything seemed so small.

Not petty, not insignificant, but _small._

Everything was small compared to the end of everything.

He couldn’t get that out of his head.

“The Triumvirate is hailing the return of their people; a ‘mission beyond successful’ is what Soviet media is branding it as,” Arya opened with, a rolled up newspaper in her hand. “We all know that’s a lie, but the Ares One crew came back in a starship - alive. What happened, Isaiah?”

“Did you make contact with the alien?” Liberman asked. “You were apparently chosen by it for something.”

“Yes…I did,” he nodded slowly. This was not going to be a fun thing to explain. “This is going to take some time, and not all of it will make sense.” He paused, knowing the words would sound very strange coming from him. “Keep an open mind.”

Hamaza raised an amused eyebrow at that, but motioned for him to begin. He’d rehearsed exactly how he was going to explain this and not have it sound like the product of a drug-fueled binge, but there was only so much that could be toned down. Honesty was the best path to pursue, no matter how insane it sounded.

He didn’t start with the vision. He started with the landing on Mars (omitting the hell that had been the initial flight). The sightings of the Ghosts. The rumors, whispers, and plans that had swirled throughout the Triumvirate. He described his meeting and relationship with the Chief Linguist – something Liberman nodded approvingly of – and how Mars had been terraformed before his eyes.

This was not the hardest part to explain; fantastical as some of the events were, they were easy to explain, even if he didn’t have an explanation for each and every thing. The science was not his forte, and it didn’t need to be. The groundwork laid, he transitioned to the vision; the meeting with the Traveler herself.

As he began describing the interior of the Traveler, the things he had seen and the maddening aspects of it, he saw mixtures of expressions on the faces of his captive audience. Not outright disbelief, but certainly skepticism, especially on the faces of Liberman and Arya. He couldn’t blame them, but it was something impossible to fully convey with words.

He described the vision; the story he had been able to partially follow along. The King and Queen, the subsequent betrayal and war. The war between the Celestials and Darkness which (presumably) raged to this day. The apocalypse which had been a shadow over his mind since he had emerged, and the final words of the Traveler.

_I am your only hope._

He’s paused for a long time after he finished this segment. It was draining just recounting it in this detail. All of them were still enraptured by his tale, and throughout it he’d noticed both Hamaza and Ryan taking a particular interest, and exchanging glances a few times. Unsurprising, ironically they were more likely to take what he said at face value.

Taking a drink of a nearby glass of water, he finished his tale. The reorganization; the building of Terra One, the people who had been left behind and worked together to return to Earth. The potential and advancement that he had seen put together in such a short amount of time, and of course how he’d returned unscathed.

There was a short period of silence once he finished.

“Well,” Arya said slowly, her expression unreadable. “That was not what I expected to hear.”

“Indeed,” Jilla concurred, her face stern and lips set in a thin line. “But this puts into context certain Triumvirate actions and what has happened since. I…will not claim to understand the implications of the vision, outside of that there is something coming to kill us all.”

Hamaza folded his hands. “The…Ghost that was assigned to you. Is it here?”

Isaiah extended his hand out, palm up, and Sagira materialized in a blue flash above it, hovering. No one made any sudden moves, even if some of them became tense. “I have been listening, and it is a pleasure to meet each of you. Isaiah has spoken of you in our conversations.”

“You are an extension of the Traveler?” Hamaza asked.

“I am, a conduit for Her power and reflection of Her will,” the Ghost flew to hover above his shoulder. “And he has earned Her attention.”

“As interesting as the end of everything is, there is something we need to know,” Liberman said, addressing the Ghost directly. “The Triumvirate is still in power, and if they get their hands on technology as advanced as Isaiah is implying, we are simply done for. Is the Traveler going to help us, or are we on our own?”

Isaiah pursed his lips. Now was going to be the hard part. “Sagira has said that the Traveler will not let the Triumvirate abuse its gifts…but it will not overthrow them. It wants to see how they react without threats or interference.”

Jilla’s eyes flashed. “Then it is a coward and fool. If the decades of genocide, oppression, and terror have not been sufficient proof that the Triumvirate should be destroyed, then nothing will. Trusting the Triumvirate will _change_ is ignoring reality, and allows them to escape punishment for their crimes.”

“Agreed,” Liberman nodded, narrowing his eyes at the Ghost. “The Traveler cannot be benevolent, and work with the worst monsters that have existed in our history.”

The fins of the Ghost spun, and her voice was soft. “Not all in the Triumvirate are monsters. There are good people; the ones who were not sent back. They can be heard now.”

“The good people?” Amjah demanded, his tone controlled but angry as a clenched fist rested on the table. “There is no such thing as a _good_ member of the Triumvirate. Where exactly were the _good_ people when Australia was being butchered? When the Indians were slaughtering the Arabs? When the Americans were overthrowing South America? When the Soviets and Chinese purged thousands of their own people?”

The young Quds Force Commander shook his head in disgust. “Anyone part of the Triumvirate is irrevocably tainted. There is no redemption for them, or anyone who participates in the regime. If there are any good people, they are cowards and liars. They have not earned our goodwill, let alone our _trust_.”

Isaiah pursed his lips. If he’d been asked this question before what he’d experienced, he would have had a similar opinion to Amjah and Liberman. Forgiveness and understanding was the realm of Ryan and Hamaza. It was not to say that the views of Amjah were even wrong…but it was too simplistic, he’d determined. He’d interacted with many of the people on Mars, and observed in the background. Defining them as ‘good’ or not missed the point. People found it difficult to act against a system which had provided for them, and they had been indoctrinated into.

For some of them, it wasn’t as if they were blind to the nature of the Triumvirate. They just never considered the possibility of fighting against it. Here, in the Resistance, it was easy to see the Triumvirate for the evil that it was. Outside was…dimmer, and the propaganda had a lessened hold than he first assumed.

Though in the end, Amjah’s outburst didn’t change the hard truth.

“It doesn’t matter,” he finally said. “This is the decision the Traveler has made, and we need to decide how we adapt to that.”

Hamaza looked at him and asked gently: “What do you suggest?”

Isaiah took a breath. “That we wait and see what happens.”

Liberman’s eyebrows shot up. “We do _nothing_?”

“We plan, we watch, we prepare, but for now we refrain,” he said. “Continue subterfuge operations, train our operatives, insert more spies – but hold off on the terrorism. If the Traveler is going to watch the Triumvirate…we should see if her actions back her words.”

“And what of the people who will suffer in the meantime?” Amjah demanded angrily.

“I don’t know,” he answered honestly with a shake of his head. “We help who we can, but unless we want to give the Triumvirate a strong reason to destroy us – at least now that they are being watched – we need to think very carefully.” He looked at Sagira. “But make sure the Traveler understands that our tolerance has limits.”

The Ghost bobbed once. Probably a nod.

“That is my recommendation,” he turned back to address all of them. “Do we put this to a vote?”

“It seems only right,” Hamaza said. “All in favor of his proposal, please say aye.”

Isaiah, Ryan, and Jilla affirmed.

“Opposed?”

Liberman, Amjah, and Arya affirmed.

And left the Ayatollah as the tiebreaker. “It is a difficult decision,” he said slowly. “I am hesitant to put trust in this alien, but I see few paths open to us. I approve of Isaiah’s suggestion – for now.” The Ayatollah’s eyes focused on Sagira, and his words were heavy. “Our expectations are high, Ghost, is that understood?”

“Yes.”

“Good,” Hamaza stood. “Then our course is decided. Let us hope that these people can enact the change you believe is possible in the Triumvirate.”

***

**MOSCOW | RUSSIA | SOVIET UNION**

The past day had been a whirlwind, from the moment Terra One landed to now. The landing had been performed safely, and they were greeted with hordes of Triumvirate media outlets, blinding them with flashes from cameras, shouts in multiple languages for comment, and largely being very annoying.

His Ghost had materialized in front of them, and projected a blinding white light, forcing the crowds back and making them put up their arms to block the overpowering radiance. A few seconds was all it took, and it ceased projecting a few seconds later, returning to orbit around his shoulder. The media had been a little more respectful after that.

Valentin was growing attached to the little machine, and had finally come up with a good name for it.

Vigil.

A watcher for the Traveler, and to hold those who would abuse its gifts to account. The Ghost had seemed to also approve of the name. As the media quieted down, he realized that there was a _massive_ military presence – much more extensive than he would have expected, even for them.

It did not give him a good feeling. The Red Army later cleared out the media as they guided the returned travelers to checkpoints, where they were separated by nation and presumably taken away. He gave a final nod, handshake, and hug to Fang and Liana before going to the Soviet station.

Oddly enough, he didn’t see where Jacob had gone to, which was a bit odd. Milya had been in the front with the rest of them, and he’d similarly said goodbye to her. He had a feeling that they would see each other again; all of them would. Of course, this assumed that his own debrief went well.

He had grown more at ease with what was coming. Vigil was watching, and he felt he was protected.

Then again…it had been a long time since he had experienced life in the Soviet Union. No fewer than a dozen of the Red Guard were escorting him; uniformed men and women who were armed and stoic. Men in KGB uniforms stood nearby, and he was uncomfortably aware of the fact that there were likely no fewer than half a dozen snipers trained on his position.

Escorted into the windowless armored car, separated even from the other Soviets who’d returned, he had no idea where he was going. The soldiers had not spoken to him, and his attempts at conversation were met with silence. Two KGB officers sat opposite him, both men, one burly, one more lithe.

They did nothing but observe him, the larger one occasionally making notes in the pad he carried. Standard KGB passive observation, he assumed. He couldn’t help but feel a little apprehensive as the hours passed with nothing. He felt trapped in a box, with people who were prepared to kill him if he did something unexpected.

He took a breath.

Vigil materialized beside his head, and caused almost every single soldier to jump and begin shouting at him. “[Enough! It’s ok!]” Valentin shouted once he saw several weapons pointing, including both of the KGB Officers’ pistols. He lifted his hands, idly motioning at the Ghost whose fins twisted back and forth almost quizzically.

“[He’s friendly,]” he stressed to the officers, as Vigil slowly came down to rest on his shoulder. The chassis was lighter than one would think, and the Ghosts themselves were fairly small, more reminiscent of a toy than a lethal paracausal drone. A few tense seconds passed, and the officers motioned to put the weapons down, and returned to tensely watching him.

They did not seem especially comfortable with the Ghost now staring back at them.

_Thank you, Vigil._

The drive continued in silence, and finally it stopped. Several of the soldiers were the first to get out, followed by him, and then the KGB officers. He was surprised to find himself in front of the Kremlin, and there was a small attaché of Soviet Kremlin staff awaiting him, dressed smartly in whites and reds.

Vigil had returned to hovering around his head, and had inclined its eye upward, likely taking in the architectural uniqueness of the Kremlin in person. “[Mr. Kozhukhov,]” the frontmost Kremlin official greeted. “[Welcome home.]”

He raised an eyebrow, but took the hand. “[Thank you. I didn’t expect to be brought here.]”

She gave him a slight smile. “[Why not? You are in a very unique position, and there are many people who await what you have to say with great interest.]”

She began walking, and he followed, even as the Red Guard tailed at a distance. “[I was almost concerned I was going to be taken to a dark room with this level of security. I don’t think I’ve ever seen this mobilization in my life.]”

She laughed, but it was a calculated one. Normally he shouldn’t bring up observations like that, as it could imply he was questioning the necessity of it. Questioning the state was not the healthiest of options. “[Standard procedure, I assure you. You _were_ in contact with an alien, after all. The Kremlin does not want to take any chances.]”

“[No doubt,]” he acknowledged. “[What about the rest of the Soviets who came?]”

“[They are being debriefed, of course,]” she answered with a slight smile. “[Though elsewhere. Do not worry, they are not in dark rooms either.]”

“[Excellent,]” Vigil commented. “[That is most certainly a positive first impression.]”

She seemed slightly caught off guard at her first proper interaction with a Ghost, with said Ghost hovering before them both, and looking down at the escort. She peered up at it. “[I’ve not met one of these Ghosts before. Are you an…ambassador?]”

Vigil hesitated slightly. “[Not exactly. An…observer,]” he floated back to Valentin’s orbit. “[He is the one who will convey the Traveler’s message.]”

All she did was slightly nod. “[Thank you…]” she cocked her head. “[Does it have a name?]”

“[Vigil.]”

“[Vigil, thank you.]”

He’d never really been inside the Kremlin before, and from the moment they’d stepped into its halls, he felt a thousand eyes watching him. Disguised KGB operatives, observing snipers, the blank eyes of security cameras, and others who had noticed and were whispering about the man who had met the alien and returned.

Everything they were saying was likely being recorded, and he was certain that his escort would dutifully recount every interaction, word, and impression. She was very likely KGB herself, as were most of the people ‘visiting’ here. The Soviets could never be too careful when it came to protecting the state capitol.

Up several flights of stairs they went, until they entered a brightly-lit room. Valentin blinked at the absolute extravagance of the room. It was likely by no means exceptional, but he’d never been in a place like this before. It was close to a luxury apartment, with wooden floors, rungs, leather furniture, and a massive floor-to-ceiling window overlooking Moscow.

“[You will be debriefed here,]” his escort said. “[It will be shortly. In the meantime, make yourself comfortable. There is a television, food and drinks in the fridge, and if the light becomes too much, there are curtains you can lower. Do you have any questions?]”

“[No…no, I don’t think so…]” he said slowly, wandering further in. “[Actually, who is coming to debrief me?]”

“[I’m not at liberty to say,]” she said neutrally. “[Apologies.]”

“[It’s fine, thank you,]” he said, and gave her a brief salute which she returned before silently departing. He knew, of course, that the entire room was bugged and rigged with hidden cameras, but at the same time, he was only going to be here for a while. He might as well enjoy it.

Vigil floated away, exploring the room, and scanning some parts of it. Valentin went to the fridge and pulled out a soda, opening it up and watching the Ghost dart around the room, scanning every few seconds. “[Are you looking for something in particular?]”

“[Yes, and there are many more than I assumed,]” Vigil floated up to roughly chest-height, and then emitted a blue pulse. “[There are approximately forty-three surveillance electronic devices in the immediate vicinity.]”

Valentin shrugged. “[It’s the Kremlin. It’d be more surprising if they _weren’t _there.]”

“[Do you want me to disable them?]”

Valentin shook his head. “[No, its fine. We won’t be here long anyway.]” Tempting as it was to have Vigil perform that – and he had no doubt the Ghost _could_ do that – he was already on uncertain ground with…well, everyone, and the last thing he wanted was to make things more difficult.

He didn’t want to undermine the Union or work against it. He was still Soviet, just with a connection to an alien being. It was expected that people here wouldn’t understand at first, but that was his job. To help them understand. To help things change.

And it began with trust.

He trusted they would act in good faith.

Valentin took a seat, looking out over the Moscow skyline.

Hopefully his trust was well-placed.

***

**ZHONGNANHAI | BEIJING | CHINESE COMMUNIST EMPIRE**

Fang swallowed and once more straightened his tie. While he was no stranger to Chinese high society, the closest he had ever gotten to the Politburo Standing Committee had been a few dinner receptions where he had been introduced to some serving members at the time. He’d been nervous then, and he was equally nervous now.

Debriefing the most powerful men in the Empire was…unprecedented. He had been shocked when he had been informed he was not to be debriefed by Qiao, but by the Politburo themselves. They _never_ took a direct interest unless they were determined to make major decisions based upon what they heard.

No pressure.

He hadn’t quite received the hero’s welcome some of the less-connected returnees had, while the Chinese state media had been distracted, he’d been whisked away and put on a plane directly to Beijing – though not before having an emotional call with his family along the way. It had been good to hear their voices, even though he knew better than to talk details before the Politburo decided what he could, and could not talk about.

An MSS Agent was part of the attaché, and had discussed certain things on the flight back. Mostly reminding him that he _was_ going to be speaking to the Politburo, and there were very high expectations regarding his conduct. A pleasant man, and the two of them had chatted afterwards about what had happened on Earth in the meantime.

He seemed especially curious about Mars, which Fang believed could be purely to pump information out of him, but because he pressed largely trivial questions (how was the weather, what kinds of plants were growing, was there any wildlife) he may actually have been genuine. Either way, Fang was satisfied, and glad to be back on Earth.

He wondered how Valentin was doing. Hopefully the Soviets were treating him just as well.

The doors to the Politburo Chamber were opened, and he walked through. Shadow was nearby, though was not visible yet. There was an agreement that he would not manifest until necessary. He took a breath, and walked through the massive doors which closed behind him with a loud thud.

The room was not massive, but it did not need to be. An elevated bench was the centerpiece of the room, made of dark brown oak, behind which sat the five members of the Politburo Standing Committee, the leaders of the Communist Party, and the Chinese Communist Empire.

The walls had carved marble murals of historical moments in Imperial history, and statues of the founders and leaders of the modern Communist Empire were placed in the corners of the room. Chandeliers hung from the ceiling, bathing the room in warm light. It was a beautiful room, and he was privileged to see such a chamber of power.

There was only a small desk intended for him though, but to expect more would have been unreasonable. He began with the ceremonial bow, and the voice of Yun Li, General Secretary of the Central Committee, and President of China spoke. “[Welcome Fang Sov. Take a seat.]”

He did so, and faced the Politburo for the first time; five men who were steadily aging, who had been part of the Party for years, and whose families had been involved for generations. Their faces were hardened and unreadable. It was times like this where he almost wished he had been more involved in understanding the complicated politics of the Communist Party.

Fang did not expect immediate acceptance. While his uncle did sit on the wider Politburo, he was not part of the Standing Committee which was the true power in China. President Li had the most authority as Chairman, but the four men flanking him wielded just as much, if not more influence.

Men who were rarely seen in public. Men who knew how to pull the levers of power, and who made the decisions which affected billions. Men he knew he was outmatched against in all realms. His family name insulated him somewhat, but now that he was under the gaze of them, he felt the name offered less protection than he thought it did.

“[You have represented our nation well,]” Li began. “[For that you have the thanks of the Empire. We intend to recognize you, and the other Taikonauts for your participation in this historic endeavor.]”

Fang bowed his head. “[You honor me, Chairman Li.]”

“[We do,]” the President leaned forward. “[However, you doubtless know the circumstances of why you are here. You were personally selected by the alien. Why?]”

“[I can only speculate,]” Fang said slowly. “[The precise reasoning was not explicitly shared. If I wanted to provide you a simple answer, I would suggest that my family name gave me legitimacy the Traveler believed would be necessary.]”

“[And yet you do not believe that is the real answer,]”

“[No. But to give it context, I will need to explain what she has to say.]”

“[‘She’ specifying…]”

“[The Traveler. The alien.]”

“[It is female?]”

“[Or identifies as such; it was how she manifested when we were brought to her.]”

“[Then share, Fang Sov, what does she want.]”

He briefly closed his eyes. “[She wants to protect us.]”

Another of the Politburo spoke. “[Protect us from what?]”

“[From something that will destroy us all,]” his voice turned distant as he remembered. “[She showed us, showed _me_ the end of everything. We are not alone, and we are in danger.]”

That elicited furrowed eyebrows and frowns. Li narrowed his eyes. “[What did she say to you?]”

“[It would be easier to explain what she showed me, Chairman Li. Though I warn you, it will sound…dubious. Yet I will swear on my ancestors that what I share is exactly what I saw and understood to the best of my ability.]”

He nodded. “[Proceed.]”

And so Fang began the retelling.

He actually felt it was going better than he’d feared. His speech was dry and halting at first, and then he fell into a rhythm as he recounted the vision. He and Valentin had practiced their speeches on the flight to Earth, and that certainly helped now, if only a little. It was a bit odd – the more he talked about it, the less strange it sounded.

Even if it was impossible to truly convey the sights and emotions that had bombarded them, he could impart a taste of it. He knew he was not insane; even if what he said might imply that. The Politburo refrained from outright interruption, but he could plainly see the skepticism and near-disgust on some of their faces.

They clearly did not believe some of what he was saying. Or all of it.

Or perhaps they did believe, and they were afraid of what it implied.

When he finished, there was silence from the Politburo. The microphones had been cut, and all he could hear were vague whispers of the men talking amongst themselves. He waited, oddly enough feeling more confident. He was seeing the Politburo unsettled – a certainly rare feat.

He’d shared enough of the Traveler for them to get a picture of who she was, and what she stood for. And what she stood for posed some _interesting_ complications for the Empire, and the Triumvirate at large. Of course, they could also be plotting his swift, but silent removal to prevent this from getting out, but he had a feeling that was not the case.

Li turned his focus back to Fang. “[You have said the Traveler wishes to protect us from this…threat. These forces of Darkness.]”

“[I did say that.]”

“[And what does she expect,]”

This was going to be the delicate part. “[That the Triumvirate prepare for this threat, treat their citizens well, and unite our species. This is a threat which is larger than any singular nation or people. The status quo cannot be maintained, not anymore. Do these things, and the Traveler will stand with us.]”

“[And if we do not fulfill these…requests…to her expectations?]”

Fang laced his fingers together. “[I do not know. Consequences have been implied, though of what nature I cannot say. But I will say that…it is not wise to test the Traveler. She is beyond us, as has been demonstrated. If we are open to…changes in certain areas…we would be granted the means to take our people far beyond anything we have dreamed. Mars is just the beginning. Under the Traveler, we will enter a golden age our species has not experienced before.]”

There was a single nod. “[Then it seems it would be…prudent…to consider the ramifications and benefits of such an arrangement with the Traveler. Is such a representative accompanying you?]”

Fang held out his hand, palm up, and Shadow materialized. “[Greetings, esteemed members of the Standing Committee. I am an extension of the Traveler, attached to Fang Sov.]”

“[I see,]” Li nodded again. “[Then convey to your Traveler that the Communist Empire will strongly consider entering into an agreement with your patron. However, we will do this in concert with the Triumvirate as a whole. I expect that such will not take long. Is that sufficient?]”

“[It is indeed,]”

“[Then it is settled,]” Li and the rest of the Politburo stood. “[We thank you for your statements, Fang Sov. Go and take your earned rest. You will be informed of the next decisions regarding this topic, and will be consulted if you are deemed necessary.]”

Fang performed a final bow. “[I thank you for considering my words. Glory to the Empire.]”

***

**THE KREMLIN | RUSSIA | SOVIET UNION**

It promised to be an interesting conversation.

Clovis knew that he did not have to necessarily conduct this _particular_ interview in person, but he was never one to refrain from taking part in history. To personally hear the story of the man who had spoken to such an enigmatic alien, and delegating such a task to the many faceless KGB, and broken down into a singular report devoid of the nuances and speculation which would accompany it was unfathomable for him.

For certain there carried some personal risk; anyone coming from Mars and accompanied by one of the alien’s Ghosts was. But everything indicated that Valentin was not hostile, nor particularly inclined to be difficult. His Ghost suggesting that it could neutralize the electronics, and Valentin waving it off was a very good sign.

The man seemed remarkably pragmatic. Clovis could certainly work with that. It was essential that this man – and the machine – believe him. Comrade Clovis on his side; a task easier said than done, but if there was something Clovis was good at, it was getting people far different from him to listen and work together.

This might even be, he mused, the most important conversation of his life.

The alien represented great danger – but he had seen the initial technical specs for the ‘Terra One’ starship that had returned. They were, put simply, incredible. The sheer _potential_ promised was beyond anything he could have imagined – and with that he could be the one to lead the Triumvirate into an age of solar expansion.

Securing the legacy of his name and the Soviet Union into the annals of history for all time.

This was a moment where men rose to the occasion, or they did not. History would only remember the decisive and bold – a privileged number which he would join. The man who brought the Triumvirate into a golden age which would stand for millennia.

Ah, maybe he was getting a little too excited. Much needed to be done first, and the alien was still an unknown quantity – if one that was signaling it was willing to extend a hand in cooperation. Yet if one did not take the leap of faith, one would simply stagnate in mediocrity. It was preferable to be Icarus and fail, then remain consigned to the complex prison of laws, norms, and expectations.

He opened the door, and entered. Valentin rose to his feet, and the blood in his already-pale face drained further when he saw him. “[General Secretary!]” He half-sputtered, scrambling to come to attention.

“[At ease, comrade,]” Clovis smiled, motioning him to relax. “[Few in our history can claim to be part of such a momentous event, and this particular one will change not just the Soviet Union, but our species forever. It should be an honor for you, and one I intend to recognize.]”

He noticed that the Ghost had disappeared, though he had noted that it had a tendency to hover around his shoulder. He focused on the empty space. “[I would not, of course, ignore our other visitor. I cannot claim to have personally met one of these Ghosts, but if it is listening, welcome, and I look forward to forging a lasting relationship between the Traveler, and the Triumvirate.]”

Valentin glanced to his right, as the Ghost materialized. It clicked and its fins spun. “[I am pleased to hear that, General Secretary.]”

Clovis waved a hand. “[In here we can dismiss the formalities. Clovis is sufficient, I will not take offense. Let us take a seat, Mr. Kozhukhov. We certainly have much to discuss.]”

“[Yes, we do,]” Valentin nodded and they each took a seat, angled opposite each other, with the backdrop of Moscow behind them. Clovis took a moment to note the expression on his face; surprised, but attempting to hide it. Nervous, but not as much as might be expected. Apprehensive in some part, but not overwhelming. For his part, Clovis’ own expression was fully controlled.

It helped to have a poker face in situations like this.

“[I suspect you have a story you wish to tell,]” Clovis laced his fingers together, meeting the eyes of the younger Cosmonaut. “[Take your time; we are in no rush.]”

In this particular instance, he knew that it was going to be far more informative to listen than question. Valentin nodded. “[I warn you that some of this will be difficult to believe, but I will do my best to share what I experienced.]”

It was going to take quite a lot to surprise him, considering they had watched a formerly dead planet be transformed into a living one, and simultaneously seen hundreds of people transported from Mars to Earth in the blink of an eye. Yet Clovis had a feeling that, because Valentin doubtless _also_ knew this, there was something truly unique he had to share.

And he most certainly did.

Clovis’ poker face was put to the ultimate test as Valentin described the interior of the Traveler; something which sounded utterly fantastical and nonsensical, but there were enough details and tones he could observe from his face to indicate that he was not lying. He did not know especially what it _meant_, and to hear it described was difficult to visualize.

Paracausal. That was what the scientists had deemed it. With that context, this was almost exactly what he would expect from such an object or entity.

Then he began describing the vision, and Clovis was enraptured.

A tale of origin and creation rivaling any religion in its creativity, scale, and absurdity. No doubt there was actual scientific explanation for what had _actually_ happened, but it was easily enough to convey the story of love, betrayal, and war that comprised it. A story of order and stagnation, and a conflict which had ravaged reality if he was understanding the implications.

A conflict that was described as still ongoing to this day.

This alien was _not_ the only one of its kind.

This alien also had enemies.

Enemies which were capable of destroying worlds, corrupting and genociding species, and held swaths of the universe in their grasp.

Wonderful.

And now, like it or not, they were part of this war because the Traveler had arrived. If this Darkness had not sought them out before, it would now. It was a somewhat brilliant ploy – an easy method to convince a willing species to join in a crusade they previously had no part in. Of course, the implication was that their fate was sealed, and now with the Traveler, there was a chance at survival.

Clovis was not _quite_ so naïve, and it seemed like this alien was similarly minded. That was reassuring in a way; a comprehensible objective and situation was something he could work with, and build an idea around.

Albeit one he would have to handle very, very carefully. He heard Valentin describe the many other species these Celestials had uplifted and weaponized against their enemy. Species which embodied the values of these higher beings; justice, compassion, loyalty, selflessness, and sacrifice.

Already he could see there were going to be some…philosophical differences between the Triumvirate and the Traveler, as he suspected that their definition was not _quite_ the same as the alien hovering over Mars. However – the potential flashpoints were not severe enough to where it wanted to intervene.

It wanted to talk. Negotiate.

Perfect.

And with that, he had a plan.

Valentin finally finished, and Clovis took a few seconds to contemplate everything – or give that impression. He had determined the only viable path well-before Valentin had finished his tale. The vision retelling had given him all the context he needed. Sure, one could argue that taking such a vision seriously was folly of the highest order, and independent verification was necessary.

However, this was not an ordinary moment. This was not an ordinary situation. This was not an ordinary entity. Action needed to be taken now, else if the wrong move was made, the Triumvirate itself would collapse. It was clear that the Traveler was powerful beyond compare – but also desperate.

It was cut off, otherwise it would have returned to its people, or its arrival would have been heralded by the arrival of other ships of these allied species. No, it was unlikely to be here because it _wanted_ to be – but because it had no choice. Humanity was something it was settling for, and that it needed them.

If it did not, it would destroy and wage war. He was most certainly _not_ buying the reasoning that it ‘wanted Humanity to decide its own path’. Please. Against such a supposed apocalyptic threat, such reasoning was beyond pathetic and naïve. It would work on a man like Valentin, but not him, nor anyone who had a more realistic view of the world.

They were in a poor situation here, but it wasn’t necessarily _as_ bad as he had feared. He had been dealt a very bad hand – but he had enough cards that _if_ – and only _if_ – he played them perfectly, he could win. A single mistake would not only be the end of him, but the Triumvirate.

_Great care_ needed to be taken.

“[It is clear,]” he finally said. “[That great changes must be made.]”

Valentin seemed slightly surprised at that. “[In what way?]”

“[Well, it seems obvious, comrade,]” Clovis said, putting a touch of melancholy in his voice. “[I am not so blinded by history and ego that I cannot see the implications. We can ignore this threat that you describe, and continually focus on our internal politics and rivalries, or we can come together as a species against it.]”

He rapped his fingers on the table idly. “[Perhaps…perhaps it is time for the Triumvirate to transition. To meet this moment head-on, and to lead. With such a threat on the horizon, we can do no less, is that right?]”

“[I…yes. I almost expected more skepticism.]”

“[Ah, I’ve seen too much to be as skeptical as I once was,]” he chuckled. “[And I can tell if someone is lying, and I know that you, comrade, are not lying. I will not claim to understand the intricate nuances of what you experienced, but I understand enough to know the message you – and the Traveler wishes to convey to me. We are nothing if we cannot adapt, are we not?]”

“[I should certainly hope so, General Secretary,]” Valentin definitely seemed more relaxed now. Very good. “[I’m happy that you’re open to changes. With what the Traveler offers, we can change our species for the better.]”

“[Indeed,]” Clovis smiled genuinely. “[I envision we will do great things. Of course, this must be done in conjunction with the Triumvirate. I will call a meeting with the heads of state, and together, we will formalize our alliance with the Traveler. As for you…]” He trailed off thoughtfully. “[You have the strongest connection to the Traveler, and she has clearly designated you as someone of note. Thus, I believe you would be useful as an advisor of sorts. To ensure that we remain within the acceptable bounds of her desires.]”

Clovis indicated the room. “[Fortunately, we have a place of residence here, if you are willing. I understand it is a significant responsibility, but one I believe you can rise to.]”

Valentin’s eyes widened, and his voice reflected the shock. “[I…thank you, General Secretary. I will accept this position.]”

Decisive. Excellent. In this rare instance, putting someone into an ‘oversight’ position without any actual experience in oversight would prove to be a benefit. Valentin was a fairly smart man, but he was no genius. The first card had been played, and it was a success. If the Traveler had insisted upon using the Ghosts, it would be more problematic.

But this alien was generous with her trust. Exploitation needed to be done carefully.

Quietly.

The roles were set.

“[I’m pleased to hear it,]” Clovis stood and extended a hand which Valentin shook. “[Now! With this formality out of the way, I believe it is time to relax. There is a celebration happening below, one befitting of this momentous occasion. There are quite a few people interested in meeting you personally.]”

“[Me?]”

“[Of course!]” Clovis rested a fatherly hand on his shoulder. “[You are a national icon now, comrade. One who is being written into the history books as we speak. Enjoy, you earned it.]”

The man had doubtless been a skeptic of himself and the government when he’d entered the Kremlin, but looking into his eyes, Clovis could see that he was being won over. Perhaps this was all he needed – recognition and the impression that what he suggested was leading to change. And it most certainly would – though not necessarily in the way he intended.

Today was only the beginning of a long, treacherous, and dangerous game.

One he was determined to win.

***

**TRIUMVIRATE INTELLIGENCE COMMAND | TAMPA | CONFEDERATION OF AMERICAN STATES**

The sun had set and Hayden Fox sat silently in a dim room, the lights intentionally minimal. It reflected his mood right now, slow and methodical. No sounds played but the air conditioning which breezed through the room, with the light pattering of rain hitting the windows.

It was the end of the workday for most of Triumvirate Intelligence, and he considered joining his colleagues in turning in for the night. His wife would appreciate it, but she knew him well enough to not be alarmed at the fact that he would not arrive home until much later. No, she would know that something needed his attention.

And his attention was needed.

He had been in this line of work long enough to see certain patterns and implications most others could not, or simply did not want to see. The truth could be ugly, unsettling, and challenging, and this was a fundamental flaw of Human nature. People claimed they wanted the truth. But in reality, they did not. They only saw what they wanted to see; everything which did not fit into their pre-conceived bubble was swept aside and rejected.

Exceptions existed, of course, but they were minimal.

Even he was not immune to this, although he at least had the ability to look at the truth with some degree of objectivity, even if he could ignore it. One did not reach a position such as this without understanding this. So much of work was not telling the truth, but twisting it; outright lying in some cases, to achieve the necessary outcome.

Especially handy in politics.

It was tiring.

It was only going to get worse.

He’d thought that with Clovis Bray elected, perhaps the Triumvirate could get back on track; the growing schisms between the Triumvirate could be healed and the world would not degenerate into a third world war. In a sense, he had gotten what he’d wished for, but now there was another problem.

The Traveler.

He knew a trap when he saw one.

And the Traveler was offering bait. Irresistible; all-encompassing; all-powerful bait that even the most suspicious would find nearly impossible to ignore. He knew his peers, Clovis would no doubt believe that such an entity like the Traveler could be tricked and manipulated. Fooled into believing he could outwit an entity older than the entire Human species.

Fox was many things, but he was not arrogant enough to assume that this celestial entity could be _manipulated_.

At the very least, it could not be manipulated and end well.

He’d seen the transcripts and watched the videos of most of the Ares One crew who had returned – including the four who had been selected. The one terrorist had disappeared completely, as expected – though few were noticing the implications of that yet. He had perhaps the clearest picture out of everyone what was going on.

And it was a trap.

The Traveler was playing a game where all ends lead to a victory, the trap was a question of which victory it would get.

He couldn’t even say it was a _subtle_ trap. Clovis himself could see the trap, but was almost certainly arrogant enough to believe he could avert it. Yet after listening to the testimonies of the crew; how they had lived on Mars; how they had interacted with the Ghosts that had been assigned to them, it was clear – beyond a shadow of a doubt – that this was no naïve alien whose mercy could be exploited.

Not permanently.

This was not even getting into the reality that this alien was not alone, and that there were much worse things out there – one of which was coming for them…eventually. While in theory, the Traveler could be manufacturing consent for reshaping the Human race and such a threat didn’t exist, or was so far off into the future it didn’t matter, he didn’t believe so.

If the alien wanted to conquer them, it could have.

If the alien wanted to shape them, it could do so.

If the alien wanted to destroy them, nothing could stop it.

Instead it was giving a choice. A clear one to his eyes, but a choice nonetheless.

He feared that the Triumvirate was not going to take the hint, and go down an irrevocably destructive path, which would be a disaster for everyone involved. The game was rigged against them, and they couldn’t hope to change the rules, much less win. Not without a miracle. He had a feeling the Traveler also knew that, which was why she was giving his species a choice.

The question remained what he was to do next.

His ears picked up a new sound; a series of subtle clicks and twists he had tuned his ears to hearing after dozens of videos sighting them. For some reason, he was not surprised to turn his chair and see one of the Ghosts hovering in front of the window. This one was made of silver metal, no paint that he could see. A red eye glowed, flicking around as it appraised him.

It was a feat of engineering, and slightly unsettling, to witness how expressive these machines actually were.

“I will say,” Fox said, leaning back in his chair. “That I did not expect to see one of you here.”

The fins turned quizzically and a very generic male voice spoke. “Your basis for that assumption?”

“Drop the voice,” he instructed with a waved hand. “I’d prefer we not speak with each other trying to exploit psychological weaknesses.”

“If you insist,” the Ghost’s voice shifted to a robotic monotone, though not one completely devoid of emotion, but effectively genderless. “The question still stands.”

“My assumption?” He raised an eyebrow. “Data, mixed with some extrapolations. Every member of Ares One who remained was disconnected from Triumvirate leadership, with the exception of Admiral Holliday, who is a rather unique case on her own. Your Traveler does not trust the Triumvirate, and I am among the highest placed.”

“And you do not trust the Traveler?”

“Trust?” He smiled thinly at the Ghost. “No, not that. If anything, your creator is being remarkably transparent in her intentions. There is a saying we have, and it is applicable here. She is giving us enough rope to hang ourselves with.”

“You do not believe your colleagues will be reliable.”

Fox snorted. “Rhetorical questions I dislike, machine. I know that your Traveler is not likely pleased with certain functions of the Triumvirate, and if you expect the natural progression of nearly a century to cease because of a warning, I am afraid you are mistaken.”

The Ghost bobbed in the air, shifting slightly. “The Traveler is confident in the individuals she had selected to pass along her message. You know that the Triumvirate is far from perfect, even as you perpetuate it. You know that there must be change – and that the status quo is far from ideal.”

“Is it?” Fox laced his fingers together. “I happen to disagree with that.”

“On which part?”

“That the status quo is far from ideal,” Fox said. “I do not know if you appraised our history. Let us say that if the Triumvirate had not existed, it is very likely that we would have destroyed ourselves through nuclear apocalypse. It is miraculous that the leaders at the time were pragmatic enough to put aside their many, many differences, and find a path – no matter how brutal – that would not kill us.”

He shrugged. “A nuclear cold war was averted. We have been at peace for decades now and we are _not_ on the verge of another near-disaster. If the Triumvirate didn’t exist, we would be in a perpetual state of a cold war, with a dozen nuclear states pointing their weapons around the world.”

“But they would not do so, because it would ensure their own destruction,” the Ghost pointed out.

“I’m aware of the mutually-assured destruction theorem,” Fox said evenly. “And I am not willing to wager the entire Human species on it. It doesn’t matter if the majority believe they will never have to use their weapons – it only takes _one_ to trigger an apocalypse. We are _not_ on the cusp of nuclear war, and so long as the Triumvirate exists, we never will be. Pandora's box has been opened, and it can never be closed again. For this reason alone the Triumvirate must endure.”

“And that is how you justify the actions the Triumvirate has taken in the interim?”

“Justify? No,” Fox shook his head. “But I hate the revisionist history employed by the so-called ‘freedom fighters’ and critics in Israel and Canada. Pakistan outright stated their intent to use a nuclear weapon on India. Australia and Japan were conspiring to release a bioweapon in Beijing. South America was overrun with despots and corruption.”

He fixed his eyes on the Ghosts. “In each situation the Triumvirate exploited the conditions already there. It did not spontaneously happen. The so-called democracies that detractors claim were crushed by the Americans and Soviets were rare and misleading. How exactly do you think South America fell without enough corrupt officials and a lack of state power to permit it? How did the Soviets engineer worker revolutions if the conditions were not already to the point where so many only saw revolution as the solution? In both cases they merely exploited the situation, not create it.”

Fox sighed. “Irrespective of methods, the fact remains that every single region touched by the Triumvirate is more stable and secure than it was before. Condemn the methods, I will not contest that the Triumvirate went too far in some cases, but understand that the few who dream of the past have in mind something which does not exist.”

“Your acknowledgement does you credit,” the Ghost twitched. “That is rare for an official in your position.”

Fox narrowed his eyes. “I would be a poor director of this esteemed office if I was unaware or ignorant of the facts, irrespective of the Triumvirate’s own whitewashing of the past and present.”

“And you perpetuate the Triumvirate, even knowing what they have done and continue to do?”

“Yes,” Fox straightened. “And I assume you want to know why. My purpose, and the purpose of the Triumvirate Intelligence Service, is to preserve the Triumvirate. That was unlikely to have been the original intent, but that is what it has become.”

“Why?”

“Because if we do not, then it is the end of the world as we know it,” Fox said, each word deliberate. “The Triumvirate are allies – but they are ultimately independent of each other. They are run by men and women who are flawed and centered on the power of themselves and their nation. _Our_ job is not to protect the Triumvirate from some unknown outside threat – it is to make sure it doesn’t collapse from within. We know – all of us do – that if we fail, we trigger the third world war that we will be lucky to survive.”

He shook his head. “To be as blunt as I can me, Ghost, it is over. The Triumvirate won before I was born. The only thing I can do is make sure it doesn’t fall apart. If it collapses, we are unprepared for what will follow.”

The Ghost hovered silently for a few moments. “You believe that now, the Triumvirate will collapse.”

“Brought down, is how I would describe it,” Fox looked out over the Tampa skyline. “You do not understand how these men and women think. I am not naïve enough to believe that they can outwit an entity like the Traveler, and I also do not believe your patron understands the consequences of what happens if the Triumvirate falls. Anarchy, violence, revolution. You will not have a united Humanity, you will inherit a splinted and warring one. Our species is not enlightened enough to see past pointless division; to move to a people beyond nationalism, religion, and race.”

“You are a pessimist, I see.”

“Forgive me for understanding my species better than you, drone.”

“You used the example of Pandora’s box.” The Ghost met his eyes. “Two things came out of said box.”

“Sickness and death.” Fox replied, ignoring the correct answer.

The Ghost whirred. “It is, perhaps, too early for you to decide what is inevitable. You are a man of influence – using it should be your first resort.”

“I certainly will,” he said. “Though I will not be surprised if my suggestions fall on deaf ears. I hope your patron is vigilant, and understands the consequences of actions taken.”

“I can assure you,” the Ghost said, floating a bit closer to him. “The Traveler always has a plan.”

Fox gave the machine a single nod. “Then for the sake of everyone, let us hope it works out.”

_For no plan survives contact with the enemy, _he did not say.

The Ghost blinked out of existence, and left Fox alone, staring out into the darkness, and contemplating the uncertain future that threatened to be tumultuous.

***

TO BE CONTINUED IN **CHAPTER VIII | POTENTIAL**


	11. Chapter VIII | Potential

**ACT II | THE TYRANT’S HUNGER**

***

**CHAPTER VIII | POTENTIAL**

***

**VALENTIN’S ROOM | THE KREMLIN | SOVIET UNION**

_He floated, disembodied; above the plateau of otherworldly land; the stars and nebulae shimmering in the background. He saw it as the Garden again, only a portion; isolated from the wider land; though now he was only a passive observer. He saw the woman bearing the mantle of the Sky, and the eternal Light flowing around Her. She stood in a small patch of the Garden fragment, kneeling over it as She molded it to Her liking._

_He watched, enraptured as She painstakingly planted each seed, infused the poisoned red land with fertility, and the redness became lush like soil; luscious and healthy. With a finger She carved a path in the land, and lifted mountains from the dire. Plants rose; water filled the canals; life grew. A drop of golden ichor dripped from a finger, and from it sprouted life from the soil._

_It was not dissimilar to how the Queen had tended to the Garden, though the Celestial was doing more than maintaining the status quo. She was changing it. Healing it. Turning it into something alive and beautiful._

_He watched as the small patch of the Garden grew, all under Her careful eye. A slight adjustment here, another drop of blood there, and She moved throughout it, refining mountains and carving oceans. He knew what he was looking at now, and was forever attracted to seeing it to the end._

_Hours passed. Perhaps days. He did not know, for time seemed meaningless in such a place. Minute or hour, it made no difference. He could feel Her now; pride. Satisfaction in Her creation. Relief at the knowledge that life would thrive here. She stood, shrouded in the Day, and turned to look at him._

_Words were not spoken, but he knew what the acknowledgement signaled._

_It was done._

He woke up.

There were times when he awoke, and still felt like he was ready to fall back into the embrace of unconsciousness. It was an irritating funk that he had to force himself through; one where he was not tired enough to not function, but not awake enough to feel active and motivated. Quite indicative of a bad night of sleep, or not enough actual rest.

Yet now, Valentin felt the exact opposite upon waking up. His mind was charged, and the vestiges of weariness were gone – despite the fact that the sun had yet to rise in the Soviet horizon. He flicked on the lights, and kicked the sheets off, even as the softness beckoned him to stay in place. The bed was supremely comfortable – everything in this room was luxury he hadn’t ever expected to experience.

Yet here he was. Valentin, the newest hero of the Soviet Union. The herald of a new era, or so Clovis had boasted in his toast that night. It was so…surreal to hear those words coming from the most powerful man in the Soviet Union, and echoed by the powerful men and women around him. He wondered if he had truly misjudged the man. He certainly hadn’t expected a wholehearted embrace of what he said.

Nonetheless, Clovis had done so – and even more than that.

He’d stumbled through that dinner, unfamiliar with the norms, traditions, and customs of Soviet high society. Fang would have excelled in a place like this, but he was a fish out of water. The best he could do was smile, nod, answer a question or two, and hope he didn’t offend someone important. Yet most people had been friendly, and asked him a bunch of easily answerable questions.

_What was Mars like?_

_Are there animals?_

_What was it like to fly a starship?_

_Are you going to play yourself in the movie?_

Small questions. Silly questions. Questions devoid of any hard answers. He couldn’t help but wonder if there was an unspoken rule not to speak about certain things. The Traveler. The vision. The Ghosts. Things of a more…delicate nature. Which he was personally grateful for. He didn’t know what he would say, or _should_ say.

Obviously, details of what he’d seen he didn’t expect the Central Committee to spread to the public.

Though he wasn’t thinking of any of that right now.

As he brushed his teeth, and contemplated taking advantage of a shower, his thought were on the dream. No…not a dream. It definitely wasn’t that. It wasn’t quite a vision either. She seemed to have reached out directly to him. A message. He spat out the toothpaste, and ran the water briefly from the sink. “[Vigil?]”

The Ghost popped out by his shoulder. “[Yes? You are awake early.]”

“[Is it normal for the Traveler to send a…dream?]”

The gears of the machine clicked, as it seemed to contemplate an answer. “[You believe you received such?]”

“[Yes.]”

“[That is very uncommon,]” it floated around to face him directly. “[It is something reserved for only a few. One She trusts to speak for Her. What did you see?]”

“[Mars,]” he said, before briefly shaking his head. “[Well, not literally Mars. But I knew what it was. It was part of the Garden. A part She was tending to. I watched Her nurture and grow it. She stood, and…well, She didn’t say as much, but it seemed clear. I think She is done with the planet. She will move to another one.]”

The fins of the Ghost spun. “[Yes. I was going to mention that She has finished, and will be moving to one of the moons of your planet Jupiter. Yet it seems like you were already told…]” He trailed off. “[I presume you will want to tell your people of this, before they panic when they see Her gone?]”

“[Yes, assuming they are not listening already.]”

“[Ah,]” the tone turned slightly warmer. “[Well, regardless, there is little cause for alarm. I imagine today will be an important day for you, and all involved.]”

“[Yes,]” Valentin nodded firmly. “[This is the day where we create the new future.]”

“[Do you trust Clovis Bray?]”

“[I wasn’t sure…but I think, maybe, we can. I guess we won’t know for sure yet…but yesterday went better than I’d hoped. We just need to make sure everything is on the right track.]”

There was a brief moment of silence. “[I’m happy you enjoyed yourself yesterday evening.]”

Valentin snorted. “[‘Enjoyed’ being subjective, when I wasn’t anxious about who I was speaking to. Do you even feel emotions?]”

“[Not quite in the same way – that would be impossible,]” the parts of the Ghost briefly separated and reattached to seemingly prove its point. “[But I can spot, understand, and mimic such emotions. It is real enough where I can feel pleased when you are relaxed. Considering what you have gone through, it is well-earned.]”

“[Well, thank you, Vigil,]” Valentin said. Machine or not, he was glad he had it hovering around him. It was perhaps the one thing outside of his actual friends that he could trust – and really the _only_ one he could fully trust here. “[We’ve all got work to do here. As Clovis said – the new era begins today.’]”

***

**CHAMBERS OF THE GRAND AYATOLLAH | TEL AVIV | ISRAEL**

It was a beautiful night out; one of those crisp evenings with a light breeze, a cooling temperature, and the stars overhead. A night where Hamaza could sit on the patio and relax, as much as one could when they were leading a resistance against a goliath like the Triumvirate.

But relaxation was important.

Tonight begged time for reflection. He needed time to think; consider what had been shared and said by Isaiah. A tale which…had challenged, troubled, and invigorated him all at once. There remained so many unknown questions, and settled some long-standing questions debated by religions across the ages.

What _was_ this Traveler? He could not say. A bringer of apocalypse?

Perhaps?

Or something else? A gift? An offer? Wholly unconnected entirely?

Also possible.

What had swayed him to leaning towards giving this entity a chance was not necessarily because he trusted it, not because of the vision it had given, but because of how it had affected Isaiah. He had known the man for years now, and out of all of them he was the toughest. A man who had been broken and hardened by a world that had taken everything.

A man who only believed in his mission, and for whom hope was less valuable than determination. Where mercy and forgiveness were for the weak, and where the unknown was not to be trusted.

The same man who had now asked that they consider taking a chance with an alien with unmatched power. Hamaza had never expected to see Isaiah undergo a spiritual awakening, but he had seen enough of them to know that was, in essence, what had happened. It was a wonderful thing to see a man develop faith, especially if he had been without it for so long.

A life without faith was a tasteless thing, he knew that well.

He imagined that Isaiah was similarly uncertain how to handle his new feelings, but he most certainly had wondered the same thing. Perhaps he would deny it, but Isaiah was not one to shy away from the truth, no matter how uncomfortable. Though what he would take away from it, and if it would change him further, that had yet to be determined.

“I wonder now,” Father Ryan Mills said from the chair seated beside his own. “What this entity actually is.”

“The question on all of our minds,” Hamaza answered. “Though I am now more unsure. I had wondered if it was a herald for something, but now…I am unsure. It is an odd feeling; to know that there is life…” he waved a hand vaguely. “Elsewhere.”

“Yes,” Ryan took a sip from his glass of water. “And here we thought we were special; made in the image of God. I suppose that we may not have been the _only_ life – or even the first. It is still troubling, nonetheless.” He shook his head. “People have questions, and there are few answers.”

“Indeed.” A pause. “This alien will be viewed as god though.”

“It already is,” Ryan smiled faintly. “With another crowd screaming about how it is the bringer of the apocalypse.”

“In a way, it might be,” Hamaza said thoughtfully. “Though an apocalypse upon the Triumvirate. Divine retribution would be a fitting conclusion.”

“Assuming it ends up helping us,” Ryan snorted. “Giving the Triumvirate a ‘chance’. No further proof that this is a fallible creature than that. Almost a relief.”

“We shall see. No doubt this is giving the Triumvirate significant cause for concern.”

“They are wily individuals. Intelligent in their cooption and subversion. We both know this. I do not blame the others for voting against it, even though I believe this was the right decision.”

“Mmm,” Hamaza laced his fingers together. “Time will tell if Isaiah’s faith is well-placed.”

“Isaiah and faith,” Ryan commented. “Two words I never thought would go together. Curious, isn’t it?”

“In a way, yes,” Hamaza agreed. “But every man can be spoken to, even if some are more difficult than others. This has certainly not been the first time a powerful vision has been enough to change or soften the heart of a man – much less make them consider things previously not entertained.”

“Very true.”

An idea came to him, one treacherous and requiring consideration. One that needed delving deep into text and theology. _For who brings visions, if not bringers of divine will._

Hamaza’s hands drifted to Quran within his breast pocket. The idea made an old, old desire reawaken. A desire that once belonged to an impoverished boy, spending nights in mosques and libraries.

Both men sat silent for a few minutes before Hamaza spoke. “I suppose we can do little more now than wait, and have faith of our own that we have made the right decision.”

***

**MOSCOW | RUSSIA | SOVIET UNION**

After the past few days, which had largely consisted of a whole lot of meetings, committees, and bureaucracy, Valentin was already ready for a brief break from the sheer complexity of what he was now involved in. He’d never appreciated just how _convoluted_ government was, and to him it seemed a bit…overcomplicated.

For every single little aspect, there was a sub-committee for the larger established committee, and dedicated committees for certain specific concepts and projects, with _sub-_sub-committees for each little aspect. This was, or so it was claimed, a superior means of organization where every single part was assigned and planned.

Improved accountability, so they said.

For him it was a swirling mess of names, titles, positions, and he had already begun relying on Vigil to serve as his unofficial assistant to keep everything straight while he hurriedly tried to memorize the names, positions, and purposes of the numerous sub-committees. There was a massive stack of files compiled by the KGB on everyone involved in them for him to review, which he was slowly making progress through.

It was enough to almost make him want to ask to reduce the workload a bit – but no, this was what he’d signed on for, and he needed to make sure it was done to the best of his ability. _Thus_ _far_ it seemed like Clovis was being true to his word about letting him have significant input. He’d already removed a few people he felt would be too hard-line, or had problematic history. Like, there didn’t need to be a former KGB officer involved in the Subcommittee on Paracausal Research – not when there were plenty of actual scientists to do that job.

He was, admittedly, still a bit paranoid that one day he wasn’t going to wake up at all. In theory, he had significant input onto everything, but he was still wary of pushing things too far. Granted…he did have the Traveler on his side. It would take him a bit to get used to that, though that protection only extended so far.

Much as he believed the Triumvirate wouldn’t stand a chance against the Traveler, he didn’t exactly want to be a casualty of it.

Moscow was bustling today, as it usually was around this hour. Vigil was cloaked, since his KGB ‘escort’ (One they’d assigned to act as his official liaison between the government and himself, and also as his unofficial observer no doubt) had recommended that the Ghosts not be seen in public unless he wished to draw a crowd.

The Soviet Union really, _really_ wanted everything official regarding the Traveler to go through proper channels, which he could understand. He’d observed with some amusement some of the people who’d returned now having to deal with stalkers, crowds, and other unpleasant side effects of fame, and fame…wasn’t something he was interested in.

_Is it always so busy here?_

Even if Vigil wasn’t physically present, it was still capable of direct mental contact, and something they’d started doing regularly only days ago. It was less weird than he’d thought it would be, and even if it had taken a while to get used to it, both of them had adapted quickly, and it was extremely useful during meetings where Vigil would helpfully remind him of who someone was, and he could answer without seeming like a fool.

He’d come to rely on the Ghost quite a lot in a short period of time. It was…rather liberating to be able to hold entire conversations in his head, with no possibility of someone else listening in.

In theory, at least.

_Yes. Moscow is the capital. Never a dull moment._

_How often have you come here?_

_Before all of this? Once. It was…always some place where everyone wanted to go, and for us it was more of a vacation. Never thought I’d be living here, much less in the Kremlin itself._

_Better or worse than you’d expected?_

_Better, honestly. Difficult to give a bad review to a luxury bedroom._

_Potentially to spy on you._

_It’s the seat of power in the Soviet Union. Literally every room and government building is bugged. State security; it’s not a big deal._

It was far from the first time that the Ghost had expressed a discomfort with the level of surveillance, almost like it was an oddly foreign concept. Valentin found it almost amusing, though he wondered why the Ghost was so averse to the idea – which was a bit rich coming from a machine which had spied upon all of them before making contact.

_Your species seems not to trust one another._

He shrugged physically, a habit he had when mentally speaking. It didn’t usually stop him from doing the physical actions – and he’d noted he had a tendency to make facial expressions too. He wondered if anyone had noticed that. _It’s not quite that simple. The Triumvirate does deal with terrorists who blend in with ordinary people, and if someone is in a place they shouldn’t be, that should be known._

_It seems too easy to abuse._

_Anything can be abused. What is the alternative?_ He shrugged again. _I don’t really trust the KGB, but the inherent idea is not a bad one, and again, in certain places it makes sense._

_You are fine with being spied upon?_

_It depends. I don’t really have anything to hide. If I can trust the people in charge, I don’t especially care. If not…there isn’t much I can do. If it’s for a good purpose, like fighting terrorism, then some sacrifices have to be made. It will be the same when we prepare for the Darkness. Not everyone will be on the same side, and it seems that they are capable of employing subterfuge of their own._

_I can understand to some extent, but I do not fully understand your apathy, especially with the KGB. They are watching you even now._

_Of course they are. You expect them not to?_

He could almost hear the mental sigh of the Ghost. Ah well, much as he didn’t exactly _like_ being monitored by the KGB, he could definitely understand why. It wasn’t _completely_ unreasonable to happen.

_I think I should give Liana a call. I want to know how she’s doing. _He reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone. It occurred to him that she might not even have her phone, or even the same number, or even was available to talk. Fang had actually reached out and given him an update of his own.

It was very promising. It seemed the Chinese were taking the Traveler’s warning seriously as well.

Maybe, just maybe, things would turn out alright.

_You don’t need to use that._

_That phone?_

_I can synchronize with her Ghost. You can communicate through us._

Valentin blinked. _You can do that?_

_Yes. It should preferably be done in an isolated location, since it will need to be physically present for the communication to take place. No chance of anyone else listening either._

Valentin looked around. _That may be a bit difficult._

_One moment._

Before he knew what was happening, Valentin found himself surrounded in a flash of light, and the world briefly contracted, and then expanded until he found himself in a completely different area. It was a large grassland, one which stretched in all directions, with mountains in the background.

He had absolutely no idea where he was.

Vigil materialized in front of him in a flash of blue. He stared accusatory at the Ghost. “[Very funny.]”

The Ghost bobbed, and twisted its fins at an angle. “[You _did_ imply you wanted privacy.]”

Valentin sighed. “[Well, we’re here. If she’s available, I’d like to talk to her.]”

“[I am communicating with her Ghost now, it should not be long.]”

A few minutes passed, and the Ghost stiffened in the air, and the color of its eye turned a solid green, and fluctuated as Liana’s voice came through. _“Valentin?”_

“Liana! So this does work.”

_“Yeah, it seems so. Didn’t know they could do that.”_

“Seems like they can do a lot of things. Something new every day.”

_“Tell me about it,”_ she laughed. _“Silly as it is to say, I’m glad to know you’re still alive. Didn’t get any updates from you for a few days.”_

“Still alive, and so are you it sounds like.” He answered. “How have you been?”

_“Never been busier,”_ she said. _“I’m in a bit of limbo. Space Force isn’t quite sure what to do with me. I gave my own report, feel like they were ready to throw me into the asylum, but they seemed to take it pretty seriously. I’ve mostly been working with Admiral Holliday. It’s pretty incredible.”_

He was relieved to hear that. “They seem receptive to what you said?”

_“Seems to be. I’m told the President herself was listening in on my debrief. No concrete actions or decisions, but Holliday said that there’s probably going to be some kind of Triumvirate-wide unveiling and overall path being announced soon. What about on your end?”_

“I met Clovis Bray.”

There was a pause of silence on the other end. _“General Secretary Clovis Bray? The one leading the Soviet Union?”_

“The very same,”

_“Shit. How was that?”_

“I can see why everyone likes him. Very charismatic man.”

_“I bet. So…it went well then?”_

“Better than I expected. Maybe I gave Clovis too little credit. He seems to be willing to make some adjustments. He’s put me on so many committees and brought me on so many projects its difficult to keep up. Seems like the Central Committee is taking it seriously too. From talking to Fang, so are the Chinese.”

_“Guess an alien appearing out of nowhere makes everyone reconsider some things. I was almost afraid they were going to reject everything, or do something stupid.”_

“Guess they prefer living.”

A laugh. _“I guess so.”_

He waited a few seconds. “Are you sleeping better?”

_“A bit better. Dreams aren’t completely gone, but I’m…managing. Got a therapist I’m talking to now, it’s a bit odd since this isn’t the typical mental trauma, but she seems good.”_

“I’m glad to hear that,” he said, relieved that she hadn’t relapsed or something. “Do the Americans also have you locked up and away from the press?”

A brief chuckle. _“More or less. Under strict orders to not speak about anything until an official release. Which is fine with me. Not really keen on speaking to the media.”_

“Same here,” he said with a nod. “I doubt they’ll share the details.”

_“Probably not.”_ He could hear something in the background. _“Got a few people looking my way. Gotta go now, it was good to talk. Since the Ghosts can do this, we should do it a bit more often. Maybe ask if they can do conference calls too, and bring Fang in. Maybe those other two as well…” _She trailed off. _“Speaking of which, I’ve not seen…what’s his name? The CIA guy?”_

“Oh?” Valentin cocked his head. “Well, the CIA might be doing their own thing.”

Though he wondered. There had always been something _off_ about the man, though at the time he’d pushed it aside given what they had all experienced together. The Traveler knew what She was doing...though he had to admit he was now curious.

_“Maybe. It’s a bit strange though. I should ask about him. Or ask my Ghost.”_

“Probably wouldn’t be a bad idea,” he agreed. “Good luck. We’ll talk again soon.”

_“You too, Valentin.”_

The ‘call’ ended, and the light of the Ghost’s eye returned to its regular blue. “[In answer to your question,]” Vigil said. “[We can have calls with multiple participants.]”

“[We’ll have to do that sometime,]” he agreed, looking around the area. “[However, you should probably take me back. Otherwise the KGB might think you’ve kidnapped me.]”

He heard an electronic rasp as the golden flash appeared again, and took him back home.

***

**THE PENTAGON | WASHINGTON D.C. | CONFEDERATION OF AMERICAN STATES**

Something about this particular scenario had made him think of myths. Particularly ones of the Greek and Roman variety, but the more Clovis Bray thought of it, the more he realized that there were some overlapping themes throughout most mythology. Gods who were all-powerful, but flawed and fallible. Mortals who were chosen and uplifted by the gods, and others who sought to bring them down.

He could not help but draw some comparisons to the particular situation they all found themselves in. An entity of god-like power, who had designated some individuals as voices and heralds; levers of control. Priests and speakers in a way; those who would speak for the divine, and give instruction according to her demands.

And what was he in such a hierarchy?

Unfortunately, individuals who challenged or trick the gods in mythology tended to fail quite spectacularly, at least if they were mortal. There were, of course, a few options. Opposition to the Traveler was not desirable, if one respected their life. However, there was something that Clovis could not reconcile, and that is life under an entity with such power.

Many might be willing to live under a god, but Clovis Bray assuredly was not.

No gods. No kings. No masters.

Only men. Men alone held the right to be the determiners of their future.

The Triumvirate was, and had been the future of Humanity, and it would not be reshaped into something it was not by sheer bad luck. In a way, Clovis mused, this might be for the best. With such an entity now in play, the petty squabbles and infighting that had plagued the Triumvirate had been forgotten as they saw the threatening change on the horizon.

How quickly circumstances could change, all by the whimsy of fickle chance.

There were only two ways this would end. They would succeed, or they would die. The stakes were not merely the future of Humanity, but his own personal life, and everything he had built during it. Yet if the consequences of apathy were to see the world reshaped by the decree of an alien whose mandate solely came through power?

Then he would rather die than be a slave.

Of course, he was not foolish enough to believe he was even close to the equal of this entity – for now. There was arrogance, and there was stupidity. An arrogant man believed he could outwit a god; a stupid man believed he could challenge a god; a weak man would conform to the will of a god.

What ill begotten ape, what malformed and misbegotten creature would kneel before the throne of a god, when he could make his own? Not Clovis.

Clovis was many things, but stupid and weak he was not. Arrogant? He was most _assuredly_ arrogant, for ambitious men were arrogant. Arrogance drove them to pursue goals and dreams that others would dismiss out of hand. How many had told him that the most he would amount to was a glorified CEO? That the idea of a non-Russian General Secretary was laughable? That the best he could hope for was a seat on an obscure committee?

Oh, there was certainly reason for their concerns. Yet he had not cared. It did not matter what the norms and expectations were; such simply did not apply to him. Now he sat as the man whose decisions shaped the world; the man whose legacy would be the one who led Humanity to the stars.

No, arrogance was not a flaw; not if one knew how to use it.

Arrogance was the ability to think beyond what was possible. It was to look at the impossible and sneer. It was to see the insurmountable mountain and climb it. It was to surpass the expectations of conformity.

Yes, Clovis Bray was most assuredly arrogant.

But so was the Traveler.

After all, one must assuredly be arrogant to warp the so-called law of reality. One must be arrogant to see the natural form of a planet, and remake it in their image. One must be arrogant to present themselves as the only hope, in the face of overwhelming Darkness.

One must be arrogant to think themselves undefeatable by the ants. To forget and be blinded to the simplest of truths, it was never the ant that kills. It was its poisoned mandibles. 

And that, in his mind, was the most admirable thing about the alien. The arrogance to think oneself immune to venom.

A worthy rival, one he would enjoy matching wits against.

Tonight would be the start of the grand conspiracy – provided he would be successful in swaying his colleagues.

Many seemed primed to give up. 

A reminder was necessary. A signal he had sent to each of them directly.

It was a signal that had never been used to his knowledge, at least not in his current incarnation. One which would summon every single Triumvirate head of state into a small, unmarked room in the Pentagon, deep below the surface. No security, no warning, only a single meeting in the dead of night.

No one would know he was coming outside his peers.

Oh, the Ghosts may be watching him, but he was prepared for that. Contingencies were to become the lifeblood of the future, and if there happened to be a spy, he would know. There were guards here, of course, always on station if this was needed. Today it was. He merely had to show his cipher, and he was through.

The others were here, all of them in plainclothes. Gopal’s hands were wrung tightly together; Li looked defeated, as if he had heard very bad news; Quinn was grim, but also visibly defiant – and Clovis noted that there was a pistol strapped to her waist. The room was bare, only lit by a single light hanging from the ceiling.

Defeated before the battle was fought, a state of mind more dangerous than the battle itself.

A simple metal table was in the center, with equally unceremonious chairs. A far cry from the tasteful ornateness of the Chamber of the Triumvirate. Luxury was an indulgence, however, and it could certainly be lived without. Without a word, he took a seat and faced his colleagues.

Gopal spoke first, his words heavy. “It is over, is it not?”

Li’s lips pursed. “I fear it is the case.”

“I am not one to be submissive in the face of challenge,” Quinn said grimly. “But there is a difference between cowardice and stupidity. We simply do not stand a chance against this alien. Pretending otherwise is foolish.”

Unfortunately predictable. Certainly justifiable – indeed, he would have been _more_ concerned if they were gung-ho in their defiance. Such would very quickly be the end of them all. But the Triumvirate did not elevate and reward fools, it nurtured realists. None of his colleagues were arrogant enough to believe they had another path. No doubt they believed they could retain their power; their lives; and bend their values and goals when necessary. Perhaps they thought they could live like that.

They would bend, and bend, until they became putty, until their power was diminished, or they brought down the things which they had built, as had their predecessors. Fear; that was the driving force. Fear and hopelessness. After all, who could face a god like the Traveler and succeed?

Madness.

Foolish.

Suicidal.

Arrogant.

Or so most would claim. Why even consider an alternative?

Because they were not animals. They were not cave apes, bowing before totems. They were the ants, born to claw their way to greatness. To topple the thrones of the gods and take their fire.

However, he was not most people.

He was the ant monarch, and all he needed was his venom and his royal court.

The comparison made him smile in amusement.

Clovis was silent for a few moments, and his finger tapped on the table. “Is that it?”

Gopal snorted. “Clovis, I do not know if you have noticed, but we have seen this alien instantly send most of the Ares One forces back here from Mars, as well as transport Ares One _to_ Mars. During this _entire incident_ this alien has been in complete control. You are not one to deny reality, General Secretary. You cannot possibly see an alternative.”

“This alien appears to not want conflict,” President Li added. “Challenging it would be more than futile – it would kill millions and amount to naught. We would lose everything. If its…suggestions are taken into account, there is a chance of retaining the Triumvirate in some form.”

Clovis reached into his pocket, and pulled out the scanner, and set it on the table with a loud clack. Quinn cocked her head, a question in her voice. “Are we supposed to know what this is?”

“Consider it the first piece of evidence that you are wrong,” Clovis said coolly, a smile on his face. “The first official product of the Soviet Paracausal Studies wing, under the Committee of Science and Advancement. In short, this is the Paracausal Scanner. Layman's terms, of course. It is a scanner, which is rather adept at picking up certain _irregular_ distortions upon this three-dimensional plane we inhabit. It is made up of six major components, each developed independently.”

He leaned back. “Now, only a few knew the full details of this little project. The full picture, at least; the smaller groups knew they were making a component for the committee in question, but little else. And voila, it was assembled under the watchful instruction of our great Soviet scientists. Valentin in particular was quite pleased, and this scanner will be instrumental in helping us research paracausality more effectively.”

He reached over and picked it up. “However, it contains a certain capability that is quite useful. In short, it can detect Ghosts.” He smiled. “Currently, there are no Ghosts hovering around, spying on our little conversation – and the moment one appears…well, such a distortion would appear.” He lifted the scanner. “And this would pick it up.”

He carefully observed the reactions, as the implications dawned upon them. “How did you manage to achieve this?” Gopal asked carefully. “Such a capability would arise suspicion.”

“Compartmentalization, and a working knowledge of sensors,” Clovis bowed his head in mock modesty. “There is now a significant amount of data on Ghosts now, as they have so helpfully allowed themselves to be scanned – for harmless purposes, of course. The data itself is directly available, and largely useless. On paper, it is not being applied to anything. However, I was able to ensure that the pieces being assembled were able to achieve this desired result.”

He put the scanner back into his pocket. “It is easy to hide a certain capability when no one knows what is being made. The result? A means to determine if and when the Traveler is spying on us. A capability the Traveler does not, currently, know I possess. Valentin was very pleased, and why should he not be? Everything was done with his approval – and by extension, the Traveler’s as well.”

Clovis laced his fingers together. “Each of you have already fallen to the ploy of this alien. You have already given up; seen what it can do, and decided that it is the end. That, simply put, is exactly what this alien is counting on. That we wholesale submit to its new order without question.”

“You have _seen_ what it can do!” Gopal insisted. “This is no irrational fear!”

“Irrational? No, but it _is_ fear,” Clovis retorted, focusing on him. “You believe that this alien is more powerful than us – it assuredly is. But you’ve conflated power with intellect. This alien? It is no more or less conniving, manipulative, and intelligent than we are. It is arrogant; arrogant enough to bend a species to its ideal version of ‘peace’. It is arrogant enough to believe we will see its power, and bend our knee. It is arrogant enough to believe that _fear_ will keep us in line.”

And arrogant enough to not see the ants.

He shook his head. “We cannot fight this alien on even ground – but it can be outsmarted. Outwitted.”

Li briefly closed his eyes. “You speak of arrogance of the alien, but your words are equally as arrogant, General Secretary.”

Clovis smiled. “They are. I make no secret of it. One must possess a certain amount of arrogance to dare see an entity like the Traveler, and refuse to submit. I know one thing is certain – if we capitulate wholesale to the demands of the alien, we shall see the Triumvirate become unrecognizable. Let us not forget the alien spoke with a terrorist, and is presumably still in contact. This alien _is not our ally_.”

“Let us briefly entertain this idea,” Quinn lifted a hand. “You brought us all here. You have a plan.”

“I do,” he said with a nod. “One which will end with the Triumvirate ascendant, or all of our deaths – and it needs every single one of you on board.” He motioned to the door behind him. “After we meet, after walking out this door, each one of you could go to one of the Ghosts. You can share it. You would likely be rewarded heavily. I, nor any of us, could stop you. But if we want to ensure that the Triumvirate – and our species – is not coopted by an alien to fight in a conflict we have no stake in, this is our one and only shot.”

_But you won’t, _Clovis knew. _Not in the face of a god. Not when it galls you to be looked down upon._

A heavy silence descended upon the small group. His peers looked to each other; no longer looking quite as resigned, but certainly skeptical. Excellent. Skeptics he could persuade, the hopeless were more difficult. Quinn spoke first. “Elaborate.”

“Simple,” he said with a nod. “It is clear that it is this Light which is the source of power for the Traveler. More broadly, paracausality. That is the key to everything. The more we understand paracausality, the more the mystique of the Traveler is stripped away. Even now, there are rules and capabilities to understand – and when we do, the keys to be independent of this being are in our hands.”

He paused. “Of course, our motives cannot be so blatant. Fortunately, we already have a very good justification for paracausal research. This ‘Darkness’ that poses such an existential threat is certainly paracausal, and what better way to prepare than understand such a phenomenon?”

“Which could be…repurposed…” Li said thoughtfully.

“Certainly, though everything must be done with the highest degree of delicacy,” Clovis pointed out. “Something I cannot stress enough. Everything _must_ be compartmentalized and layered. The truth, as it is, can only be something only a few know. The full picture is large, and the details minute – but one mistake and we will be exposed. We will fail. And we will die. The room for error is not minimal – it is _nonexistent._”

_And we will win._

He spread his hands. “But what I propose – it _can_ be done. It will take time. It will be the greatest challenge of our lives, perhaps in Human history. We will smile, and pretend, and nod. We will make the Traveler think she has won; we will make her people think the same. Every decision we make will be made in the context of parameters she would find acceptable. But the endgame…the endgame is only for us to know. If we succeed? We will ascend to the stars, prepared for this Darkness, and any other threat against us, as the people who brought down a god.”

_And mankind will be known as god-killers._

Bringing his hands back down, he similarly lowered his voice. “I know what I am proposing. I know we may fail, and that we easily could die. But I have decided that I will not live as a puppet to this alien, who will seek to change us to her liking. I will not see the work of my predecessors and previous generations destroyed because of _idealists_ and _fools_ who view us with simple minds. I will not give in so easily.”

_Because nothing has changed, the game is the same. The rules edited, the tables flipped. But we’ve long since mastered this game. All three of us. _

He took a breath. “The time to choose is now. Which side are you on?”

Quinn and Li exchanged a look. “I admit, the points raised were ones I had not considered,” Li said slowly. “It is sheer arrogance…but there may be little choice. I will not see the Empire become something it is not. The people need direction, not freedom. The Traveler promises anarchy, and showcases a misunderstanding of our species. Very well, I will support this endeavor.”

“As will I,” Quinn nodded. “I do not trust the alien’s motives, and am equally concerned about the influence it will have on our species. We are not autonomous under it, and too many fail to see that. It will one day take control, regardless of what it promises now.”

Gopal was the only one who had yet to speak. Long seconds passed, before he shook his head. “I can admire your fortitude, General Secretary. Your…ambition. But there is a line between arrogance and delusion, and I fear you have passed it. I have a nation to attend to in this difficult time; I cannot afford to risk my life in doomed plots against an entity like this. I will not betray you, but do not count on my support, nor that of the Republic.”

_All three of us._

“We should not give up so quickly,” Quinn insisted. “We-“

“No!” Gopal lifted a hand sharply. “I _will not_ let myself be persuaded into acting against the best interests of myself and my nation. I’ve made my decision. I wish you well in your plot, but I cannot be a part of this.” With an abrupt motion, he stood, and quickly left the room.

Quinn and Li looked at Clovis, concern written on their faces. “He will expose us,” Quinn said grimly. “Intentionally or not, he is the weak link. He always has been.”

“Certainly,” Clovis leaned back, and unexpectedly smiled. “However, this is for the best.”

Li’s eyes narrowed. “Explain.”

“Come now, did you think I would just let him walk away and doom us to eternal servitude to the alien?” Clovis shook his head, and briefly chuckled. “I knew both of you I could rely on. Gopal? He is not reliable. A coward, and a man too afraid to dream beyond the possible. It matters little. Do not concern yourselves with him.”

Quinn frowned, picking up on the clear insinuation. “I hope you know what you’re doing.”

“Have faith, Madam President,” Clovis said, flashing his trademark charming smile. “I assure you, this is not my first time.”

He rested his hands on the table. “Now, let us discuss our plot to bring down a god.”

_We are the ants, born to take the fire. _

***

**TRIUMVIRATE INTELLIGENCE COMMAND | TAMPA | CONFEDERATION OF AMERICAN STATES**

Irrespective of the plots that were no doubt taking place, Fox had to admit that many of the proposals and plans being moved into place were not only promising, they were revolutionary in a way that history had not experienced since the Industrial Revolution and World War II.

It was almost as if every project was the Manhattan Project.

Of course, there were no direct weapon proposals, but he was more than capable of reading between the lines. He was no scientist or engineer, and the details and formulas were not especially useful – but for the fact that there were many, many reputable scientists explaining it that even a laymen like him could understand.

Space travel. Limitless energy. Formulas that broke rules as they currently existed. It was difficult to truly grasp the scope of what was plausible. It was exciting, and slightly terrifying just how much was already proven to be _possible_. The Triumvirate would leapfrog beyond any remaining independent nation on Earth in mere _months_ once the industrial machine began moving.

Fossil fuels would become obsolete. Energy costs would become irrelevant. Genetic engineering would become commonplace. No longer would wars be fought with crude ballistic weapons, but miniaturized railguns and energy weapons. It truly seemed like the only limits would be the imagination of the people working on the projects.

Already there were many promising ones. Many in the theoretical stages, but every project started somewhere. Most interesting were the studies around paracausality. Every Triumvirate nation was developing some version of a paracausal study group – some larger than others. The Soviet Union has close to four thousand dedicated personnel – unsurprising that would capture Clovis’s attention.

He wondered as to his motivations.

One of the larger joint initiatives was the creation of an interstellar fleet. No warships as of yet, these were primarily transportation – specifically for use between Earth and Mars, which the Triumvirate was looking to fully develop as a dedicated research planet. Several dozen major satellite installations studying various advanced subjects and projects were located, with Bray Incorporated awarded the largest installation.

BrayTech specifically had been awarded the space, which meant that they were being given the Triumvirate’s joint artificial intelligence project – something which looked particularly promising. Some of the greatest minds in computer science and AI were placed upon it, including Bray’s daughter, interestingly enough.

Well, his _other_ daughter.

He was quite interested in seeing if that project bore fruit. It could revolutionize intelligence work as he knew it - if the quantum projects didn’t do it first. Exciting times, even as exhausting as it was to keep up with every new development. He was waiting for something to happen…but nothing was.

The Triumvirate heads were preparing to make a joint statement regarding the Traveler in mere days, and how _that_ would go would be telling. Right now the Triumvirate was focused on neutral things like research and technology. They would almost certainly be able to do that without controversy – when it came to outside the Triumvirate?

More difficult.

He was acutely aware that such developments would not extend to Canada, the UK, Israel, or Africa as a whole – not unless the Traveler insisted. That would be a very interesting test – if that path was taken.

Well, whatever was coming, the Traveler was elsewhere. She appeared to be done with Mars, and had moved to Jupiter, and was terraforming several of the moons there. An odd choice in his opinion, but he imagined there was some kind of reason for it. Mining worlds, perhaps. If the intent was to build up a fleet or army, raw materials would be necessary.

“Engrossing reading?”

The Ghost was back again. It liked to pop up at unpredictable intervals, sometimes ask questions, sometimes have a rather normal conversation. It had earned its own designation. On paper he had designated it as Watcher-7, as the seventh unique Ghost which had been reported. It most certainly wasn’t the seventh Ghost that had been spotted, but it _was_ the seventh one to appear distinct from others.

The Ghost had accepted the designation quite easily. It made him wonder how the machines were programmed, or if they even _had_ traditional designations. Perhaps it was a self-determined code. There was certainly something off about the Ghosts that few were commenting on. Already he had noticed that it was…easy to talk to.

Like a friend.

That kind of personability was not natural. This was an exceptionally adaptable intelligence, and he didn’t quite know _why_ it was designed that way. This was certainly not an accident. Was it to make the Traveler more appealing? That more would trust it? It wasn’t overly different from cozying up to a source to make them more likely to share information.

It made him feel better, in a way. This was a standard manipulation tactic, which meant the Traveler understood Humans enough to know what would work. Even though he was aware of it, he still couldn’t shoo away the little indoctrination bot. Besides, he preferred having a connection directly to the Traveler, no matter how isolated.

“Very engrossing,” he said, addressing the Ghost’s question. “What your Traveler has shared will be nothing short of revolutionary.”

The Ghost hovered to move around his shoulder, and presumably read some of the document opened on his screen. “Implants?”

“The Transcendence Project,” Fox elaborated. He knew that he likely wasn’t supposed to be sharing classified information like this with a Ghost, but frankly, if the machine wanted to know, it was going to be able to find out, one way or the other. “The Triumvirate’s overarching umbrella concerning all modification; from augmented reality, cognitive implants, neural modifications, and theoretically even consciousness transfer.”

“Ah,” the silver fins of the Ghost whirred. “A radical proposal, the latter goal. Such your scientists consider possible?”

“In theory, yes,” Fox nodded. “Interestingly enough, the theory suggests that it would be more feasible to perform such a procedure onto a digital medium as opposed to an organic copy. Not the final iteration, certainly, but that is the direction they are planning to pursue. Exoskeletons as opposed to clones.”

“And these will not be soldiers?”

“Realistically?” Fox raised his eyebrow. “There would almost certainly be military applications. I don’t imagine the majority of people would be willing to give up their bodies, but there would be enough volunteers to make such an endeavor feasible. One can make a far more dangerous soldier without the constraints of biology.”

“Yours is an odd species,” Watcher-7 remarked. “Your tendency for radical solutions is unusual. Most would take such a procedure, and apply it to clones or other biological bodies. Or they would create autonomous soldiers. You would seek to place organic minds in shells – and many would volunteer of their own free will.”

“‘A tendency for radical solutions,’” Fox repeated with a snort. “I have to remember that one. Welcome to Earth.”

Watcher-7 emitted an electronic raspberry in response.

Fox smirked, and finished his reading of the document before closing it. Another day done, and his wife awaited. A few clicks to shut things down, a final check to make sure nothing had popped up, and-

The phone rang.

Fox briefly closed his eyes. No one would be calling him this late in the day unless it was going to require his complete and undivided attention. He was going to have to let his wife know he was going to be late tonight. Again.

Hitting the answer button with more force than necessary, he wasn’t able to suppress all of the irritation in his voice. “Director Fox. What is it?”

_“There’s been bombings in New Delhi,”_ came the answer; Brask’s voice, and it sounded in a mix between shocked and urgent. _“The Taj Mahal. The Lok Sabha. And…the Prime Minister’s Office.”_

Fox went cold at the last one. “The President…”

_“No confirmation, but he is presumed dead.” _A pause. _“The explosion was set off right as he was entering the building.”_

Fox blinked. “How…?”

_“A fucking good question,”_ Brask said grimly. _“No official statement given by anyone, and the Military has locked down the entire city. There’s already been reports of mass arrests. Mobs are forming. Its growing exceptionally ugly very fast.”_

President Gopal dead. If this was true…this was the greatest terrorist action in…decades. It was impossible to determine what the ramifications were, but this shifted the calculus for a lot of things. He quickly flipped on the television in his office, and was greeted with far-distance footage of the named buildings, smoke and fire raising from the impact point, and dozens of Indian soldiers.

The anchors were speaking in similarly shocked tones, and he was only picking up bits and pieces, zoned out as he was for trying to determine the ramifications. An attack of this scale should not have been possible. Sure, if it was going to happen anywhere, it _would_ be India where they’d have that kind of lapse, but it was shocking to consider how that could have been pulled off.

His mind immediately jumped to that unknown terrorist who had been associating with Milya. Both chosen by the Traveler, one of whom connected to a terrorist organization – and one from India, which happened to be targeted. He definitely wasn’t going to be going home for a while now.

“Set up a continuous feed to me,” he instructed, as he prepared to get the sorry excuse for an Indian intelligence director on the line. “Keep me updated; initiate and immediate wartime rotational shift.”

“_Yes, Director.”_

The line ended, and he spared a brief glance to the Ghost. “I certainly hope the Traveler had nothing to do with this.”

“She did not.”

“Might want to mention that to whatever drone is with that terrorist,” he shot back, focused now on trying to figure out how this could have happened. “Now go. I need to get to work.”

***

TO BE CONTINUED IN **CHAPTER IX | THREAT**


	12. Chapter IX | Threat

**ACT II | THE TYRANT’S HUNGER**

***

**RESISTANCE COUNCIL CHAMBER | TEL AVIV | ISRAEL**

The tension was so thick it could have been cut. Kane, Hamaza, Liberman, and Jilla stood all facing each other. The latter had been summoned after what had happened. An event that _normally_ would have been cause for celebration, but since the last meeting, had been something which should _not_ have happened.

_And to think at one point this would be one of the best days of my life,_ Isaiah thought grimly. _How things have changed._

Jilla’s face was almost bemused, an air of satisfaction around her, which was effectively all he needed to confirm his suspicion. It was possible she was just thrilled by the news of Gopal’s death, but Kane knew very well that the region was her wheelhouse, and they were the only ones capable of pulling off such an attack.

Hamaza was the one who asked the question. “Did you order the attack.”

She took a sip from a glass of water, a smile playing on her lips. “No.”

Of course not. It wouldn’t have been surprising if she _had_, but Jilla was a woman of her word. Kane narrowed his eyes. “Did you _know_ the attack was going to happen?”

“Well, if we’re speaking candidly, Osiris, then _of course_ I knew it was a possibility,” Jilla continued nonchalantly, using his current code name. “I know everything that goes on in that region. You know me better than that. And when my people came to me with the opportunity to kill the good President, I carefully reviewed what they showed me, determined it was feasible, and said as much to them.”

She locked eyes with him, eyes which were accusatory and hardened. “Sadly, I could not give my official sanction, since we as a Council agreed to refrain from violent action in the immediate future against the Triumvirate.”

“You did not give sanction,” Hamaza noted slowly. “Yet you did not condemn them either.”

With a deliberate controlled motion, Jilla set the now-empty glass of water on the nearby table. She was deliberately tense, her features carefully controlled, but he knew she was internally seething. The smoldering fury that the older woman had kept within her was threatening to break loose now.

She was _insulted._

Yet her voice was moderated. “Are you surprised?”

Isaiah was not. Neither, it seemed, was the Grand Ayatollah, who pursed his lips with a sigh. “I’m disappointed. We agreed as a Council.”

“Which I will contest was ill-considered, futile, and cowardly,” she practically spat, though the venom in her voice was restrained. “Nonetheless, I made the choice to abide. But that is where my willingness ends. I will not tell the men whose families have been hunted by the Hindu fanatics, who were raised fleeing from a radioactive wasteland, who have seen our people live as second class citizens in the mockery they call a _Republic_, that they _cannot_ strike against the man who has fanned the flames of his fanatical followers and ruled his apartheid state.”

She looked Hamaza square in the eyes. “Perhaps you could give that order. I cannot and will not condemn them for the murder of this man. He deserved far worse, as do all of the Triumvirate. You are also a fool if you believe that my order would have dissuaded them. I do not care if you disapprove, Ayatollah. If you thought that we are going to _forget_ what we have endured and suffered because the little drone from the stars _asks_ nicely…” she aimed the pointed words at Sagira, who had materialized around Isaiah’s shoulder. “Then you have no business being in charge of these people.”

Isaiah rubbed his forehead. “You are just proving the Triumvirate right. They will use this to solidify their relationship with the Traveler, and point to their tyranny as justified.”

Jilla gave a sharp laugh. “And? Do you think I care what they think? Do _you_ even care? I’m not going to pretend to be something I’m not to appease an alien, Isaiah. I have no empathy or remorse for slaughtering every single one of the Triumvirate. I will bomb their citizens and murder their leaders and still sleep soundly at night.” She shook her head, eyeing Sagira. “Little Ghost, if you were under the impression that we are peaceful, that we have any intention of coexisting with these monsters, then you have been misled. And if you believe that our actions are unjustified, then there is little I can say that will convince you otherwise. If your precious red lines are crossed, then you should leave us entirely. There are no clean hands here.”

The Ghost’s fins spun, as she was silent. “You are one who has suffered greatly.”

“I need not your sympathy, machine.”

“Murdering others will not bring back your people or country.”

“I’m not interested in bringing them back, machine,” Jilla said softly. “But if I cannot bring them back, I will ensure they are avenged, and their spirits can rest at ease, knowing that those who destroyed us are also dead.”

Hamaza laced his fingers together. “They are killing our people in response to this.”

Jilla grimaced. “They only needed an excuse.”

“Perhaps. They still would not have done it otherwise.”

A shrug. “Gopal is dead.”

“And what did we gain from this?” Hamaza asked. “More of our kin dead, and the next Indian President a puppet of the Soviets or Chinese? Is this better?”

Her fists balled. “Hypocrite. Your logic leads to no Resistance. If nothing we do changes anything, then why are we here at all?” She waved a hand sharply. “The Triumvirate knows that no one is untouchable now. We can kill the President of India. We can kill anyone in their government. Will the one who replaces him be better or worse? I can’t say, but the moment we become paralyzed with the _what_-_ifs_ of war, then we will lose. If there is collateral, we accept it – as we have been doing for years. This is not the time to grow a conscience, Ayatollah. Not until the alien gives us a reason.”

“She cannot intervene and throw your world into chaos on a whim,” Sagira said slowly, her gears clicking. “She wishes not to overthrow your species.”

Jilla’s lips curled up. “Then she is a coward and a fool. Apathy is complacency.”

“Enough,” Hamaza raised a hand. “There is little we can do to reverse this now. Jilla, you must reign in the Wheel Cell before they do anything else rash.”

“No.”

Hamaza cocked his head. “No?”

“_No_,” she repeated firmly and flatly. “I won’t tell my men to stand down if there is an opportunity. I will not sanction it. I will not plan it. But I will not stop them, nor will they listen to me.”

“Yes they will,” Hamaza emphasized gently. “You are their leader.”

“But a leader has to believe in what she orders, Ayatollah,” Jilla answered, just as quietly. “I have no faith in your plan. I have no faith in your alien. I will not lie to my soldiers for something I do not support or believe. I do not lie well, you know this, and so do they. If you wish to address them yourself, I will not stand in your way. But do not expect me to intervene.”

The fire in her eyes seemed to dim. She sighed. “If you wish to remove me from the Council, then I will accept that. Understand that whoever will replace me will not comply with your demands either. If they do not endorse, they will openly deny.”

“I understand,” Hamaza sighed. “I will consider what to do.”

“Thank you,” Jilla gave a sharp nod. “I have a cell to run. You know how to reach me.”

She left curtly after that, leaving the trio alone. Liberman’s expression was blank. “I was afraid this would happen.”

Isaiah nodded. “So was I. In retrospect, it’s foolish to expect everyone to just…trust that things will change. Nor is she wrong.”

Sagira floated in front of him. “In what way?”

“That the Triumvirate doesn’t deserve redemption,” Isaiah said, rubbing his chin absentmindedly. “It deserves to be burned to the ground, and scattered to the winds. Gopal was a monster who deserved to die. I won’t mourn him, nor will anyone here. And truthfully, I can’t bring myself to condemn her. If I had the opportunity to remove President Li, I would do it without a second thought.”

The Ghost was silent for a moment. “You understand her.”

“All too well.”

“But you disapprove of what she did.”

“Something seems wrong about this,” Isaiah shrugged. “Call it a hunch. I feel like it is playing into the Triumvirate’s hands. The Triumvirate does not shy away from false flags, but this was not one of them. Perhaps the timing is wrong, I don’t know. All I know is that this doesn’t help us as much as she thinks.” He sighed. “Of course, I have the luxury of being able to be objective. Jilla was the only one to live when the bombs fell on Pakistan. She will never be impartial on India, nor can I expect her to be. No more than I can be objective on China.”

He rubbed his forehead. “This is a mess.”

“And she will be far from the only one,” Liberman added. “If handled poorly, it will splinter the Resistance. Even if we retain central control, there are those who are not in support of refraining from lethal operations, especially if opportunities arise. Jilla is far from the only one.”

Isaiah raised an eyebrow. “You too?”

“I prefer to be more strategic,” he said, shooting a side-eye at Sagira. “I share the skepticism she has of the Traveler’s influence on the Triumvirate. They are irreparably tainted, untrustworthy, and corrupted. I am not willing to forgive and forget, nor will I trust them should they change. Your Traveler is naïve, Ghost. Or she sent you here as a trap to lull us into complacency.”

The Ghost practically sputtered. “She did not!”

Liberman was unmoved. “Then she is a fool. Do not be surprised if others ignore your delusions. You do not know us, nor what we have experienced. I do not care if you can reshape a world. Your power is pointless if you do not use it for the right things.”

“And what _are_ those ‘right things’?” Sagira demanded.

His voice was monotone. Factual. Neither judgemental nor accusing. Conversational. Calm. “The right things?” He asked her back. “Too many to count, but all lead to one answer.” He paused, considering.

Liberman turned to face Sagira proper. “The Triumvirate methodology is not a bug. It is a feature. If it were an orchard, the very trees would be rotten. There is only one method to correct that. Only one conclusion. Only one, singular answer.”

He raised a finger, as if counting, to Sagira. “Burning the Triumvirate’s rotten orchard to the ground, down to the roots and up to the leaves.”

His hand lowered.

“That is the only correct and right thing to do.” Liberman said flatly. “I do not care if you agree. Help us, or don’t, but do not expect us to trust you on a whim. Not when your Ghosts are flying around and legitimizing the Triumvirate terror state. Playing both sides will not work.” He looked to Hamaza. “I will follow Jilla’s example, I will not intentionally break our agreement. I will also utilize opportunities as they appear, one way or another.”

He nodded to Hamaza, though seemed not interested in a response. “I will see you later, Ayatollah.”

He left, leaving both of them alone. Or three of them, with Sagira. The Ghost’s eye briefly flashed. “He did not strike me as this confrontational.”

“That’s probably the most emotion I’ve seen from him in a while,” Isaiah muttered. “Wonderful. The Wheel and Jackal Cells are effectively rogue, and that’s going to give the Triumvirate license to continue existing.” He looked to Sagira. “Liberman’s not wrong though, and you’re going to have issues convincing others that there is equality between the Triumvirate and…us.”

“It appears so,” there was an electronic rasp like a sigh. “Both seem to wish to inflict violence to avenge. Little thought given to the others who live innocently, or what will replace them.”

“They have seen truths they cannot unsee. Truths that have robbed hope from them.” Hamza replied. “How could they hope, when every hope only invites more pain?” A smile grew on his lips, soft and old.

“They have let scars define them, change them, and not to their better natures.” Hamza withdrew his prayer beads, rolling the beads one by one between his fingers. “Someone must remind them of otherwise, of who they ought to be.”

Sagira bobbed slowly in the air. “Burning the orchard…”

“I realize,” Hamaza nodded slowly. “Though not inexplicable. It will take time and healing for any of them to change. Only if those responsible are brought to justice. I will see what I can do to placate the Wheel Cell operatives.”

For once, Isaiah was glad his cell primarily focused on information gathering, observation, and infiltration. At least he could trust his people to not go off-script – though if the opportunity came up for a particularly useful assassination…

He sighed. _Focus_.

_We should at least give Her a chance to do something._

Although he wondered what it would be. The next few weeks were going to be interesting, and the months ahead would determine just how much faith they should have in their restraint. Assuming that no more unsanctioned actions were taking, which now seemed a distant hope.

Right now, all they could do was wait, and hope everyone followed their orders.

***

**OFFICE OF THE GENERAL SECRETARY | MOSCOW | SOVIET UNION**

Clovis Bray smiled to himself as he watched the breathless coverage on the terrible tragedy that had taken place. The President of India dead, killed by terrorists in a conniving and cowardly attack that had taken the lives of a dozen bystanders and innocent aides. Wall-to-wall coverage, interviews with witnesses, officials, experts, and politicians.

Beautiful.

There was nothing more satisfying than a plan coming to fruition after a pawn played its part – unknowingly, of course, yet played it all the same. The mindsets of terrorists and radicals were so disappointingly…simple. Easy to predict, easy to use, easy to control on the macro scale, all without them realizing it.

It was like watching a movie for the first time. A standard American blockbuster. You knew the characters, you knew the basic overview, and even without knowing the plot and ending, you could reasonably predict what was going to happen next, who was going to do what, and how it would end.

Technically it was something one did not know, but no one was surprised when it happened. So too was it that Clovis was not surprised when the antagonists of this story he was watching unfold played their part.

Once seen, it was impossible not to know it as mundane and mediocre beyond compare, almost ugly to behold in its simplicity. But he’d seen it long ago, long enough to appreciate its ugliness and simplicity.

After all, how could a play be completed, if every actor over-thought their role? It could not be. That was their role. For they, they did not think. They merely acted on the stage.

They were shaped by their perception of their enemy, and the personal motivations which had driven their minds into the closed rooms they had become. Incapable of perspective, incapable of nuance, incapable of long-term strategy. No, revenge, vengeance, hatred, such poisoned the mind. Made it seek out simple solutions, violent answers, and short-term successes.

What so many of these terrorists failed to realize was that no one wanted revolution. A hundred, or a thousand individual soldiers could die; prominent politicians could be assassinated; loyal citizens could be targeted and killed – and absolutely nothing would change. Each death merely reinforced and exposed what they were.

Violent, irrational, murderous thugs and criminals.

One needed no propaganda to turn the people against the violent mob - shining a spotlight on them did that job perfectly well. To be an underdog, a rebel against a tyrannical regime was a self-fulfilling prophecy. So many seemed to think that all it would take was the public to ‘wake up’, and that they would see the ‘truth’.

Only they had spent so much time in their warped mindset that it made them incapable of seeing that the people who lived peacefully were simply happy and content with their lives. Such a possibility would never enter their minds, not when they viewed the world as black and white. Complicit or sympathetic, ally or enemy. Binaries.

Such a simplistic worldview.

Incapable of nuance.

And that was ultimately why they would lose.

But first they would play an instrumental role in the ascendance of the Triumvirate, and would cement Humanity’s status as an interstellar power.

_Let’s not get too far ahead of ourselves._

_We’re only just getting started._

And to think that the critics of the Triumvirate had criticized the policies of the past. That the violent uprisings and attacks would generate nothing but resentment and anger, that they would lead to terrorism and civil unrest. All of it true, of course – he held such views himself. Violence was a…simple method of conquest. Blunt and dull, inelegant and hard to wield with finesse.

Violence was a tool. One which should be wielded carefully by the state. The Soviet Union had not risen to become a superpower by threat of their armies. No…all they needed to do was turn the anger; the inherent _unrest, _the _dissatisfaction_ of the people against their leaders. All that was needed to overthrow a nation was the harnessing of a mob, and pointing it in the proper direction.

They would willingly join afterwards, and Europe now stood as the example of this philosophy.

A continent nearly conquered, without the Red Army firing a single shot.

Beautiful. Elegant.

_Magnificent._

Of course, there remained dissidents. But they were few. Isolated. Easily dealt with, without significant comment.

Yet something he had grown to acutely recognize was the inherent trap of unfocused peace. Peace without purpose bred resentment, complacency, and allowed the desires and minds of the people to wander. It led to reexamination, and a relaxation of the standards and values that had brought a nation and people to greatness.

People needed something to focus on, to strive towards. Or to fear.

Of course, he had wanted to purge these terrorists, but at the time, the alien had not been present. It had been a different period, and now everything had changed. Perhaps it was a blessing in disguise, as there was something far more effective to focus the minds of the public than an aspirational goal.

An enemy.

In a sense, these terrorists were the perfect enemy. Scattered, small, and yet dangerous enough to pull off such feats like assassinating one of the heads of the Triumvirate. An enemy which was tangible through the perpetual media cycle, yet so small and far away that the vast majority would never experience a terror attack, or be close to one.

And he had all the tools to ensure that, not only would this enemy remain in the minds of the public, they would be directed every step of the way.

These people were desperate for success, for victory, that they would not critically think.

A wolf with a full belly was a dangerous and conniving creature. But these were starving, bony husks barely feeding their dying pack, their hunger guiding them to brutish actionary instinct. Instinct easy to follow, to guide to the stage.

Theirs was to play the act on the stage, so long as they received their scraps which were dangled by the hunt master.

And it was so easy to allow them to succeed. Of course, he could not simply fake a terrorist attack – he was no fool, and he had to assume there were Ghosts watching certain people of the KGB closely – and one Ghost was also in the Resistance. The Traveler would know if there was foul play.

And that was simply unacceptable.

Yet something as simple as delaying passing along a single intelligence brief informing New Delhi about the possibility of a terrorist attack was all it took to shake a nation. Small, subtle, and so _minute _that no one would think it intentional. Only one person was aware of what had happened, and what a small lapse had cost.

Luka entered, his face controlled, but with an aura of contentment around him. “Such a tragedy,” Clovis said, briefly checking to see if there were any Ghosts observing. “I have no doubt we will get to the bottom of this attack, will we?”

Luka smiled bloodlessly. “I am in contact with their soon-to-be-former intelligence director as we speak, and the Soviet Union has pledged to assist in finding the source of these attacks.”

Clovis leaned back. “And how has the Republic planned to respond?”

“Parliament is planning to hold an emergency appointment within hours,” Luka answered. “The response has already happened to a degree – New Delhi is under martial law, though they’re letting the Hindu mobs run amok and extract justice on their own. There have been about six hundred ‘terrorists’ who they’ve presented to the Indian Army, and at least a few hundred killed by mobs.”

“I would have expected higher numbers,” Clovis commented.

“I think the sheer scope of the attack, and the martial law dissuaded only the most fanatical,” Luka shrugged. “Do not worry. I expect there to be mass demonstrations the moment the restrictions are lifted.”

“Excellent,” Clovis nodded. “And we will be there to support them. After all, justice must be served for such a terrible tragedy.”

“I am curious how they pulled this off,” Luka mused. “Fox in particular is…_incised_ about this, and how no one learned it was coming.”

“And he is correct,” Clovis said knowingly. “Technically.”

Luka’s smile remained. “Technically.”

The innuendo was perhaps a bit much, but they did not need to be explicit when both knew the truth. The stage had been set, the Traveler would be fooled, and the start of the plan was a success. One success through, one success on a path the required absolute perfection. If this was the hand he had been dealt, he was feeling more confident that he could turn it into a winning one.

Clovis did not smile, nor grin, nor show anything. But he did look up, to where he knew it would be. He was the ant monarch, he had his court. Now.

_Now and here, I invite you. To come and see, to come to court and see the music. Let it start. Let the dance begin._

_Come, Traveler. Let us see if man can outwit god._

***

**THE KREMLIN | MOSCOW | SOVIET UNION**

The Kremlin was a hive of activity. Valentin felt like a fish out of water as he stood almost helplessly as aides, officials, and agents swarmed the breezeway and throughout the halls. Even at its most busy, he’d never seen it like this. The air was charged with the acute sense of disbelief.

_How could this have happened?_

He wondered the same thing.

He’d awoken earlier than usual, and had checked his phone and had been stunned when he’d read the first headline.

INDIAN PRESIDENT GOPAL KUSARI DEAD IN UNATTRIBUTED BOMBING

He’d blinked, certain he’d misread it. Then read it again. He checked other websites. Same story. He started reading the details in fascinated horror. He couldn’t remember the last time something on this scale had happened. The American Vice President had been assassinated a _long_ time ago, and it wasn’t uncommon for India to suffer wildcat terrorist attacks.

But to successfully assassinate a head of state?

Unprecedented.

Vigil’s tone was subdued. “[An unfortunate development.]”

“[To put it lightly,]” he’d said, his tone numb. “[This shouldn’t have happened.]”

“[I did not think the people opposed to the Triumvirate were so resourceful.]” Vigil said.

“[They aren’t; they shouldn’t be,]” Valentin shook his head. “[They’re a fringe minority, and always have been. This just doesn’t happen. Not unless something major has changed. I need to figure out what’s happening.]”

He’d quickly gotten dressed, and rushed down to the main floor where he’d been quickly pulled aside into an ‘emergency meeting’. Inside the meeting was a collection of government officials, KGB agents, and military officers. Very few of them paid much attention to him, though for once Vigil wasn’t hiding himself.

At the head of the table was a woman dressed in a black and silver Triumvirate Intelligence uniform. Young, black hair, and impeccably presented. She looked mildly familiar, though he couldn’t immediately place her off the top of his head. “[All of you are aware of what has happened,]” she began. “[President Gopal Kusari has been assassinated. Triumvirate Intelligence, as well as the respective national agencies, are working in concert to determine the culprits, cause, and circumstances of how this was allowed to happen.]”

_Elsie Bray!_

Of course! He remembered her now; she’d appeared on camera several times when Clovis had been in the running for General Secretary – and other times in promotional videos for Bray Incorporated. He knew almost nothing about her other than her family, and he’d certainly not expected her to be in Triumvirate Intelligence of all places.

An odd career path when she could have been placed almost anywhere in the Soviet Union, be it in Bray Incorporated or in the government directly.

The screen began showcasing images. Pictures of the debris and wreckage, along with a number of bodies. Numbered pieces of evidence were displayed, bomb parts, clothing, bootprints, blood.

“[Preliminary evidence points to a local terror cell which has operated in India for years,]” she continued. “[They’ve been responsible for a number of attacks across India, and New Delhi specifically. Contrary to what you may have heard, they are well-trained, supplied, and competent.]”

“[Pakistani?]” One of the KGB officers asked.

“[Primarily, though they have also recruited from the nation’s religious minority Indians. Muslims and Christians, primarily,]” Elsie corrected. “[India has struggled to properly contain this issue, though have thus far managed to prevent significant blunders until today.]”

That came as somewhat of a surprise to Valentin. This didn’t exactly sound like a small band of terrorists, but something more…organized. It must have been intentionally downplayed by the Soviet Union to prevent people from panicking – not necessarily a bad thing, but it meant that things like _this_ could happen and now everyone was worried.

“[We are not sure who sanctioned this attack,]” Elsie continued. “[However, we know that this terror cell is managed, or heavily influenced by Jilla Pitaft, who was once the Pakistani Minister of Defense.]”

“[I thought she was dead?]” Someone commented.

“[Her status is unknown,]” Elsie corrected. “[We know that she survived the destruction of Pakistan, and founded a terror cell, which exists to this day. We’ve found no evidence that she has died since then, though it is possible another has taken her place. There are two people who could authorize a strike on the President of India – Pitaft, or Grand Ayatollah Hamaza el-Hussein.]”

Murmurs spread throughout the room at that. Valentin vaguely knew who she was talking about – wasn’t he in exile in Israel? And he was running a terrorist cell? This was becoming more concerning the more he listened. Hearing the reality of the world hidden from the public was a sobering experience.

“[As for which one gave the order, that remains inconclusive,]” she continued. “[This is a serious escalation, though not unprecedented. Hamaza’s neo-Quds Force has been known to work with Pitaft’s terror cell, and his influence is not something to discount.]”

“[Could this be a splinter group?]” Another man asked.

“[Unlikely,]” Elsie shook her head. “[There were multiple explosives in play; professionally made ones too, they likely received training in Israel. Their resources are not used lightly, and this cell has been willing to perform acts of indiscriminate mass murder before. Someone authorized this, it is only a matter of who.]”

Valentin leaned forward as the screen shifted to some more images showing evidence. “[The exact point of the explosion isn’t determined, but they were suspected to have been planted in the vehicle the President was using, under the road itself, and hidden in nearby plants. Witnesses also claim that masked individuals came out and tossed explosives towards the President and killed themselves with cyanide capsules afterwards.]”

“[Any others in custody?]”

“[A dozen suspects are being questioned now. We are expecting the Indian government to make more in the coming hours.]”

The conversation continued further; Valentin listened, trying to absorb all of the details, now privy to state secrets he didn’t ever expect to learn. It appeared that terrorism was a larger issue than he’d expected or thought about. But how much larger of a statement could you make than killing a head of state?

_You seem surprised._

Vigil interjected for the first time in minutes.

_I didn’t know these terrorists were so dangerous._

_Where did they come from?_

He grimaced. _If they’re Pakistani, likely from one of the Triumvirate’s…less-inspired decisions. India destroyed their country with nuclear weapons._

_I see. No question as to why they would attack._

_No…but Gopal didn’t order the bombing, and it wasn’t just him who was killed. There were bystanders who were killed and injured. This was terrorism, even if their reasons are understandable, it doesn’t make them right. These are people who would kill me just because I’m a Soviet._

_A worrying prospect._

He sighed internally. _I don’t know. Clovis is probably going to ask my opinion. What would the Traveler say about this?_

_Regardless of past crimes…revenge is this way is not right…_Vigil paused. _The ones who did this should be brought to justice._

_That’ll be enough. I think we can find common ground on that._

***

**SOV RESIDENCE | BEIJING | CHINESE COMMUNIST EMPIRE**

The days when he had spent his days here now seemed like so long ago, but very little had really changed. It was an opulent, beautiful residence; a mansion with stone-laid walkways, delicately curated hedges, gardens with sweet-smelling flowers, and fountains that flowed soothingly throughout the exterior.

Inside the mansion was no less impressive. The finest leathers, rugs, furniture, filled the rooms; not gaudy, yet elegant. The gold and red colors of the Empire were the dominant color scheme, and no shortage of flags scattered throughout the residence. Chandeliers of crystal hung from the high-rise ceilings, casting soft light over everything.

The sheer wealth on display hid the cameras placed throughout the residence, bushes concealed the working automatic weapons, and snipers rested atop the roofs at night. Bulletproof glass was provided for all of the windows, the water purification was industrial grade and drew from a private well. Every night laser-tripwire alarms were set in front of the doors; spectrum-tuned to be nearly invisible to the naked eye.

When one’s family was one of the most powerful within the Communist Party, with a history that stretched to the days of Chairman Mao himself, there was no shortage of healthy paranoia. Many dynasties had risen and fallen in the lethal realm of Party politics, but the Sovs endured.

And they would endure for generations to come.

Perhaps that was why Fang had always felt out of place here. It was difficult to truly appreciate the luxury when the feeling hanging over him was a lurking paranoia that there were those out there that would not hesitate to kill him for his family name. Ironically, the residence made him feel unsafe.

It had been a relief when he’d finally left it, and left Beijing entirely to join the Taikonauts. Beijing was a wonderful city, but one where he’d always felt like he had to watch his back inside. It was too close to the levers of power in the Empire, and the alleys of the city were a good place for accidents to happen.

He almost wished he could go back to the Moon. Anywhere but getting caught up in Party politics. Though it was difficult to do so when he stayed with his family day in and out. He was bound to learn about the latest internal drama, complaints about other dynasties, and late nights hearing his parents, grandparents, brothers, and sisters stay up to discuss the minute details and strategizing.

It struck him as so…pointless. They were prouder of him for being asked to go before the Politburo, and conversely were only tangibly interested in that he’d come face to face with an _alien_. It was all a way to leverage their newfound celebrity, and had tried to get him to come to some meetings or be introduced to some people (and eligible women).

He’d refused.

He left to avoid the intra-Party drama. That wasn’t going to change now. To their credit, at least his family more or less accepted it, and had moved on. They still cared for him of course, but there was certainly a sense of…disappointment, both at him, and at the ‘opportunity’ they had ‘lost’.

But the last thing he was thinking of right now was how to give his family more power. As far as he was concerned, they had enough, and weren’t using it for the right reasons.

Now though, they were all gathered, and for once, were all of a similar mind.

“[What will happen next?]” His father asked rhetorically, as they watched the muted screen with the provocative headline on the death of the Indian President. The event had shocked all of them, as while everyone knew terrorism was a minute threat, the idea that they could pull off something like this was…unprecedented.

“[No doubt an interim president will be confirmed by the Parliament,]” Xiang Sov, his sister and highly placed in the Ministry of State Security said, eyes glued to the screen. “[New elections will be ordered shortly. All of the competing parties will demand new elections, as they’ll see it as politically advantageous.]”

“[Of course they will, no sense of national unity,]” his father snorted. “[And leave the country leaderless in this time of change.]”

“[Perhaps this will motivate them to take the dissent seriously,]” his grandfather commented, his face stone-like and wrinkled. “[They have been too tolerant and permissive.]”

“[They’re not much different from the Americans,]” Fang felt compelled to point out.

“[Please,]” he sniffed in return. “[The Americans have systems in place to keep their people controlled. They learned well from the Soviets. Still permissive, but they are not as blind, even as they have faced their share of incidents.]”

“[Nonetheless, this will significantly shake up the nation,]” Xiang said. “[Still, this is surprising. The implications are concerning.]”

“[Indeed. They’ve let the problem fester long enough to where it killed their leader. Sloppy,]” his father wrinkled his nose. “[I would hope the Triumvirate makes it clear this is not accepted, especially so close to the Empire.]”

“[The Politburo will be taking up legislation to address this new security concern,]” grandfather waved a hand. “[The Party, at least, will respond to this new threat.]”

“[This happened in India,]” Fang frowned. “[India has always had a terror issue to some degree. It hasn’t spread here yet. Our counter-terrorism measures appear to be working.]”

“[The terrorists also weren’t able to kill their head of state,]” Xiang countered. “[A few hundred civilians every year is hardly something to brag about.]”

Fang cocked his head. “[Some people would probably disagree.]”

She shrugged. “[You know what I mean. Regardless, I’m sure the Politburo will respond swiftly, and the Triumvirate will follow.]”

“[I will ensure it does,]” his father said. “[Common ground we will find here. The Party will speak with a unified voice. You are welcome to join as well, Fang. Even you and the alien you have spoken to should be able to condemn these terrorists.]”

“[Yes…]” Fang hesitated. “[Though first I would see what this entails. I sincerely doubt the public needs more restrictions placed on them.]”

His father’s brow furrowed. “[I would be careful not to repeat that outside of this residence.]”

Fang sighed. “[I’m well aware of this.]”

“[I believe we have dwelled on this long enough,]” Xiang stood and stretched. “[There is work to be done, and I need to leave in a few minutes.]”

“[As do I,]” Fang also stood. “[I need some air.]”

There were a few nods as those remaining continued the discussion in muted tones, and he left them to themselves, wondering how more restrictive the inevitable new security legislation would become.

And if there was any way he could maybe put it on hold. Because he had a feeling that it was going to be a crisis the Party was not going to allow to go to waste.

He sighed to himself. It seemed like he was going to have to get involved in politics, because if he didn’t, then there was no one else that would.

It could also get him killed, but that was something he wasn’t going to dwell on.

For now, anyway.

***

**TRIUMVIRATE INTELLIGENCE COMMAND | TAMPA | CONFEDERATION OF AMERICAN STATES**

Hayden Fox sat at his desk, putting the finishing touches on the briefing he was due to present before the Triumvirate heads of state. Two weeks, one hundred and seven pieces of evidence, six hundred and seven interviews, forty-two suspects, twice that number of interrogations, a martial lockdown, a new interim Indian President later, and there was a completed story of what, exactly had happened.

Normally, he’d be in a celebratory mood, despite the circumstances. This was by far and away some of the best work Triumvirate Intelligence had ever done. His people were to be commended, the other agencies had been remarkably helpful and cooperative, and most importantly, they had explanation, means, motive, and the most important parts of the story.

The beginning, middle, and end.

The beginning, as the story went, was simple. It was long suspected (and now confirmed), that the so-called “Wheel Cell” was keeping an eye out for high-profile Indian targets. Military officials and politicians primarily. The President had been considered too high-profile to feasibly take out, but they’d devised a plan anyway.

Unrelated operations had provided them with Indian military uniforms, keycards, identifications, and other pieces that – theoretically, would let them get near or into restricted areas. Several of the cell had successfully infiltrated into low-level staffing and military roles – remarkably well, in fact, some using forged identities, some not.

More importantly, they had explosives. Not cheap jury-rigged IEDs. Professionally made remotely-detonated and timed bombs. It had always been suspected that Israel had been providing training, and although that hadn’t been _confirmed,_ they’d managed to learn that the cell’s primary bomb makers had traveled to Israel several times.

The biggest surprise? The cell was not only well-funded – a long-time suspicion, but _extremely _well-funded.

Funded enough to where infiltrators had no shortage of emergency funds, and considering the quality of the bombs, they were having no issue acquiring the components necessary to create them. They could hire or train master forgers for more illicit funds, and there was no telling right now how much counterfeit money was in circulation in New Delhi and the region as a whole – which was to say nothing of ID cards and skeleton keys that had doubtless been duplicated.

It was already a security nightmare the Indians were scrambling to correct – along with many Triumvirate security systems which had universal keycards and codes that the Indians had access to – at least right now it didn’t seem like non-Indian tokens had been replicated or compromised.

All of the primary intelligence agencies were doing a review just to be sure.

This obscene funding also allowed them to utilize bribery. Not small bribes either, but bribes that were half a year’s salary for a regular Indian soldier – which was to say nothing of low-level accountants, staff, and others. The cell had paid out a staggering _twenty million_ American dollars over the course of five years – which raised so many red flags he didn’t know where to properly begin.

That kind of money simply didn’t _exist_ without state backing. Was Israel not only providing a safe haven for these terrorists, but _also_ bankrolling them? It was very troubling, and necessitated an actual investigation – without getting into the issue of how the hell the Israel economy was permitting that kind of surplus. There was enough here to force Israel to come to the table, and arguably enough to trigger a harsher retaliation, risky as that was.

So that was the beginning. The middle was where it got interesting. There was going to be an opportunity. Multiple military guards that had been corrupted were all going to be assigned to the President’s military detail. It was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. The route had been leaked to the Cell, and they knew where he was going, and what route he would take.

There had apparently been some heated discussion over whether or not to risk it. They’d gone ahead and made preparations anyway. Bombs, bribes, and moving infiltrators into position. This was where the main plot twist happened. _Technically_, this had not been a sanctioned operation. For the first time in a long time, they now had confirmation that Jilla Pitaft was alive and still in charge of the cell – and she had not explicitly given permission to take out Gopal.

Well, stories conflicted. Some said she’d signed off on it. Others said she _hadn’t_, but had given implied approval. There were rumors that there was high-level disagreements between multiple terror cells concerning something ‘unspecified’, which Fox suspected had to do with the Ghost that was with the Ares One infiltrator.

It confirmed several things:

One: This had _not_ been sanctioned by the majority of operating terror cells.

Two: The Grand Ayatollah had not approved it. Not a single witness had even indicated that the Ayatollah was brought into the loop at all.

Three: It seemed that the Ghost (and by extension, the Traveler) was having an impact on leadership, but some of the cells weren’t playing ball, and doing their own thing.

Four: _Some_ in the terror cells were trying to likely follow…whatever the Ghost had suggested…which Fox found a particularly interesting concept.

In short, this had technically been a rogue attack, but in reality it was tacitly approved by the leader of the cell. It had _not_ been sanctioned by the other working cells at large. A little detail that he doubted would matter to the Triumvirate heads of state, but it was an important distinction nonetheless, because he couldn’t envision that these terrorists – no matter how radical – would consider _now_ a good time to assassinate someone like Gopal.

Then came the end. The fateful day. Earlier the car had been rigged with explosives, and the bribed guards turned a blind eye to it happening. Witnesses reported new gardeners and masons who had come by to do unscheduled ‘maintenance’ on the Presidential office, which had been planting additional explosives – and well-hidden ones too.

Of course, these had been discovered when the Presidential detail had begun to secure the area. For reasons Fox could not comprehend, they _still_ brought the President close to the area. Outside, of course, but he still should not have been anywhere close to the scene. It wouldn’t have saved them anyway, and Fox knew now that this had been intentional.

The Cell had wanted as many people as possible to gather around. The bombs had been designed as to appear to be on a timer, and _not_ remotely detonated. Soon after the Presidential car showed up – boom. Terrorists hiding in the crowd that had gathered threw more explosives towards the already-destroyed vehicle and soldiers (including ones they’d bribed), killing dozens, and injuring dozens more.

In the end, there were only pieces left of President Gopal. The bomb-throwers had been tracked down, though killed themselves before they could be captured. So ended the mission of the Wheel Cell – the most successful terror operation in decades.

Normally such an attack would not have been possible, this kind of thing was usually caught by intelligence agencies or law enforcement long beforehand. A thorough review of intelligence gathered had only turned up mere _hints_ that something was maybe going to happen. CIA and MSS intelligence implied that the cell was in the planning stages of something that would happen within the month. No more details, and that had already been passed on.

A KGB report had learned a bit more – that the cell was rapidly preparing for an operation that could take place within two weeks, against a major Indian figure. There had apparently been some infighting over if the source was reliable, and they had tried to gather corroborating details – meaning it wasn’t passed along to the Indians until it was too late.

Fox doubted it had been intentional. The KGB were notorious for wanting accurate information (usually because if it was wrong, someone’s head would roll), and there was the uncomfortable fact that even if they _had_ corroborated it, they might not have passed it along because it was basically telling the Indians that they had more sources in their country than they did, which _might_ have caused some issues.

In short, it was a perfect storm of coincidence, events, and timing to coalesce into this utter mess.

Yet he still felt something was off about this whole event.

He didn’t know what it was, he knew he was being irrational. This was, while not _exactly_ an open and shut case, pretty damn close to it. There weren’t any plot holes or unanswered questions (outside of _where_ and _how_ this cell was so well-funded). This was as close to a completed story as he could hope for.

So why did he feel like he was being played?

Why did he feel like he was coming to the wrong conclusion?

The evidence lined up. The story made sense. There was no reason why he should feel anything other than pleased that it had been completed.

Even the _Ghost_ hadn’t refuted any of what he’d said – which was the clearest indication that the story was true. The Traveler had an eye or eyes in these terror cells – if there was foul play, he had no doubt Watcher-7 would be gleefully sharing it. Or as gleefully as the drone could.

Yet with all that, it still didn’t sit right with him, and he knew why. This was exactly the kind of stunt the Triumvirate would pull. He knew very well of the Soviet hijacking of the Workers Revolutions and the decades of American meddling in South and Central America. False flags and color revolutions were well within the playbook of those who ran these nations.

What better way to gain the sympathy of the Traveler than a brutal attack such as this? What better justification for more…operational freedom, so to speak? No, there was no doubt that this was _not_ beyond the realm of possibility. The Triumvirate _could_ do this…and all the evidence pointed to that _not_ being the case.

This attack was not a false flag. There was no indication this had been allowed to happen. There was nothing – that he could find – that indicated any hidden conspiracy or plot twist he had missed.

He had to go with the evidence, and while his gut said something was wrong with this whole situation, the evidence said otherwise, and it was rare when both were not in sync. It bothered him, but he was certainly not going to follow a conclusion the evidence utterly refuted. It seemed to just be a massive coincidence that this was going to likely turn out in the Triumvirate’s favor.

Fox did not believe in coincidences like this.

Yet it seemed now he had no choice.

He was a professional, and he would give the facts to the heads of state. For once, he would have to come to terms with the fact that the Triumvirate actually had not engineered something that turned out in their favor. Maybe that was a positive sign, and he was not one to entertain conspiracies and lie to himself.

His gut would have to get over it.

He checked the calendar. Briefing tomorrow, and at the end of the week was the ‘official’ acknowledgement of the agreement between the Traveler and Triumvirate. With Clovis Bray as the keynote speaker. How shocking. He wondered what kind of rhetoric Clovis would take, because he certainly would exploit this for all that it was worth.

Well, at least he would have a mission after this. These terrorists were getting funding from somewhere, and if Watcher-7 was going to keep tight-lipped about the details, he would find it himself. For all the sins the Triumvirate had committed, they were still better than literal terrorists.

And he hoped that if there was one mission everyone could agree too, it was to make sure attacks like these did not happen again.

***

**GENEVA | SWITZERLAND | SOVIET UNION**

The crowds stood arrayed before him, packed as tight as could be permitted without becoming unduly uncomfortable. They packed the streets and venues that were far too small to contain the thousands who had come to witness the future; overflow spilled far beyond – thankfully something he had anticipated.

Screens had been put up along the streets; bars and restaurants were packed as the city saw more visitors in this single day than years. The uniformed Soviet Police stood by and carefully observed, while uniformed and plainclothes KGB and Triumvirate Intelligence kept a diligent watch for any signs of trouble.

There was only one topic in the minds of the public today – the future.

Today was the day when the Triumvirate – and Humanity – would take the first true steps on the path to interstellar power. Today was a vision of the future. Today was the day when the agreement between the Traveler and Triumvirate would be formalized, and the future secured. Clovis did not need to feign his excitement and pride over what was to take place.

It was indeed the beginning of the expansion of Triumvirate power.

A message of hope for his citizens.

A message of reassurance for the Traveler and her agents.

A warning to those who stood opposed to Triumvirate.

_The day is coming when all will be brought under our control_

The briefing Fox had provided had made that as clear as possible. The pawns were already playing their part, and they would expose themselves soon enough. The story would be plain to see from the perspective of those blinded, for they were all mere characters in this tale he was weaving before the eyes of the world.

Clovis stood on an elevated platform, hands resting along the sides of a podium with a pre-written speech laid upon it. A prop, of course, he needed no reference when he had been pondering what he would say for weeks now; the moment that he knew was coming. The moment which would set the _tone_ for what was to come.

Behind him stood every single returnee of Ares One, many with their Ghosts hovering over their shoulders, while the other Triumvirate heads of state stood before them, including the recently appointed Interim President of India, Ishwar Sardar, a largely moderate Hindu with a history of prior military service. He had the credentials, experience, and willingness to work to ensure such an attack did not happen again.

Of all the choices, he was easily one of the best. Clovis would not have wanted to deal with a hardliner or Hindu fanatic, lord knew there were enough of those running around. Nonetheless, he would be a fine addition, and under normal circumstances, Clovis would look forward to working with him.

But did he _trust_ him?

No. Not yet.

Time would tell if he was someone to bring into the fold. Until now, he would play his part, and play it well. The stage was set, and the dance was a waltz with no end. If the_ king _of the ants tripped, his court would do no better.

The light at the bottom of the podium clicked green. Time for the show to begin.

Time to begin, to take the starting steps of the pirouette.

“Today, all bear witness to history,” he began in English – the standard language for addressing an international audience. “Today we bear witness to the future of the Triumvirate, of the world, and of our species. I want to stand before all of you, and speak of nothing but the wonders and prosperity that is coming, but I cannot do so and disrespect the memory of those who perished such a short time ago.”

The screens behind him showed a picture of the smiling former Indian President. “My only regret is that I was not afforded the privilege of working with him more,” Clovis continued, putting some remorse in his voice. “Even if we only worked together for months, it was enough to show me that he was devoted, tempered, pious, and skilled. He was a true leader, one who will not be easily replaced.”

Of course, in reality Gopal had been a largely ineffectual, prideful leader who was more interested in his own affairs than security concerns and the Triumvirate at large. He was especially bad at seeing the bigger picture, nor had the spine to make truly monumental decisions. All of which ultimately culminated in his untimely demise.

Mundane. Mediocre. Simple. Never one of the Triumvirate, not in truth, only one who had been propelled along by the currents of greater men before him. He had never risen taller than the shadow he cast.

Such a shame. Ironic that he must not be contrite and sorrowful about him. He almost imagined Quinn resisting the urge to roll her eyes. Ah well, it did no one good to shed no tears for such a man, the people wanted a hero; a martyr, and who was he to deny them that right?

“I have every confidence in Interim President Sardar,” Clovis said, briefly motioning to the Indian near him. “He was chosen well, and will lead his people with the same vigor and determination he has shown before, and I am certain that the people of India will once more pick one as great as President Gopal was!”

In reality, it was likely the people would overwhelmingly support a hardliner. They wanted blood, and there were no shortage of those who wished to see vengeance stoking the flames. Not unless a major shift took place over the next few months.

They, the people, were puppets on a stage, eager for strings, eager to see this great play to its end.

“Let us briefly have a moment of silence, to honor his memory one last time,” he briefly stepped back, bowed his head, and allowed a quarter of a minute to pass before stepping up again. He had the crowd now, the hook was set and bait taken.

The moment ends.

The act resumes, the play continues.

He raised his head, focused eyes on the crowd. “Recent events force a question – why? Why, after the miracles and fantastical events our world has experienced in these past months, why respond now with violence?”

He leaned forward. “It is because the future has come, and with the future comes change; with change comes fear. Fear of the unknown, fear of the different, fear of losing what exists. Yet neither Triumvirate, nor our people, fear the future. Since the beginning, our leaders have guided us through each crisis. We have experienced the hardships of failure, and the bounties of success, yet in every instance we emerged _stronger_.”

For every failure, was a lesson. Every step on the path of power paved by those who’d been too limited in mind, too small of ambition to brave the paralyzing fear and overcome it. To go above and beyond their mundane, simple mediocrity.

He would not be another one, making another singular step on the path. He would pave it whole and gild it in the ichor of the divinity within his sight.

Divinity born of the Traveler, and the Traveler alone.

To Her alone, until the god was bled dry.

He spread his hands. “Let none tell you that change is a _threat_ to what we have built! We, the Triumvirate, are nothing if not _adaptable_. How can we remain stagnant when the secrets of the vast expanse are now open to us! _We are not alone._ Let the illusion shatter, and we come to grips with this truth.”

A placating hand raised, as he tempered his voice. “Of course, the unknown is frightening. We are not alone, there are those beyond, in the vast depths of space which seek to do us harm. This we know, yet there has been no enemy which we have not overcome, and we will not fall now. Our salvation has already come to us.”

But to pave a path, one needed stones and cement. A path could not be paved with nothing, just as blind man cannot fish without being taught how to do so.

The reveal comes, one they doubtless knew, yet anticipated all the same. “All of you are aware of the entity which has turned a dead world into a thriving garden, one we have sought, one we have spoken to. One who came to us, not to threaten or conquer, but offer and protect. A Traveler of the stars – and She has seen us, and seen that we are the future.”

And they had seen her, for she would be the stones and cement to pave the path with.

He allowed a smile to break forth; not hiding his enjoyment of this moment. “This is more than simply announcing an agreement, for such clinical terms cannot convey what this means for our species. From Her we learn the secrets and potential of the universe, until we too will be able to turn the dead worlds into ones our children and grandchildren inhabit. She is not a mere ally to our species – She is our _friend_. She signals change for not just the Triumvirate, but the world.”

_Show me Traveler, show me how you dance._

He let that hang for a moment. “And change is what we should not fear. No longer should we tolerate the status quo, but work to rush past it. No longer are the old mindsets applicable, we must forge ones in new understanding. _Today_, the Triumvirate leads the future of not just our people, but the Human species into a new era of prosperity.”

An era unending. An era to be recorded in mythos and stone tablets.

“Of course,” he paused. “Change will be resisted; people shall cling to the familiar, but this is a greater time than just a mere discovery. What we intend will be to chart the course of the future, and for that we invite all to join. Do not be intimidated by those who seek to tear down, main, and destroy. They are the past, and they shall be left behind as historical footnotes. Today, we say to join the future. The Triumvirate shall guide all into the stars, and we shall go where none have gone before.”

To the thrones of the gods, to topple and bleed them and emerge, steeped in the blood of creation itself.

“The future, my friends, is bright – and today, we have affirmed it is set in stone. Change is here, and the best is yet to come, for now our golden age begins, and it shall stay as such forever.”

For it was not in the fate of man to be slaves. No. That was not their future. It would not be and would never be. They were born to _ascend. _To take the birthright by their might.

To rise, rise. Higher and higher.

For they were ants, and their destiny was to rise to Olympus, one. Slow. Step at a time. Only they, only mankind, would dare do so. Only they dare stare at the mountain and risk death to climb it.

He finished, one fist over his heart as the crowd burst into applause, as did all the attendees behind him. The noise of the crowd roared and cheered; it continued for nearly a solid minute – and still kept going. If anything the noise seemed to grow louder and he beamed as the warm sun shone down upon him.

Such moments were ones he lived for. Nothing could compare to the feeling of a crowd who, in brief moments such as these, shared your vision. Such a feeling was more potent than any drug or emotion. A feeling of control and belonging and optimism. Yes, the people were behind his vision now.

No matter what happened in the days and weeks to come, for this single moment, he was content and happy.

It was a day he knew he would remember for the rest of his life.

_Welcome to my court, blind and proud god._

This was more than a calling to lead the Soviet Union, to lead the Triumvirate, or to lead his species to greatness.

_Welcome to a waltz that only ends with one victor._

This was the possessive purpose to win this dance, to make others gaze in awe of this magnum opus of a waltz. This was to behold the triumph of a deity brought low by the ants and their monarch.

This was his _role_.

This was his _right_.

This was his destiny.

***

TO BE CONTINUED IN **CHAPTER X | THEORY**


	13. Chapter X | Theory

**ACT II | THE TYRANT’S HUNGER**

***

**THE BLACK ARMORY | ROME | SOVIET UNION**

Clovis breathed contentedly as he walked the Roman streets. This was a place with some of Humanity’s oldest history , the heart of civilization for centuries, and, now, a jewel of the Soviet Union. It was one of his favorite places to visit, and he had made it a point to tour the city during his campaign for General Secretary. Bray Incorporated had, of course, also invested heavily into Italian infrastructure and businesses.

Then again, the true value of Rome today was not in its history, but in what it housed.

The Black Armory. A massive underground labyrinth with only a scant few entry points, most of which were nondescript buildings registered to endless chains of shell companies. Founded shortly before the invasion of Australia by the Chinese, the Black Armory was the Triumvirate joint weapons and technology program

Every single major weapons test, from nuclear to ballistic, energy to physical, took place in the deep labyrinth. It was a city beneath a city, with dozens of different departments, covering everything from infantry, to armor, to cybernetics, to exo-skeletons all existed underneath. It had taken five years to carve out the humble beginnings of the Black Armory, and, in the decades since then, it had been greatly expanded.

The Black Armory was where tests and experiments could be conducted with limitless resources, endless time, and complete secrecy. Every defense company of note was involved somehow, after all, a place of creativity required a diversity of thought. Here was where the technology for the next war was being developed, and, since the Traveler had arrived, the Black Armory was being expanded once more.

It would be a _major_ expansion.

As he waited, he idly wondered how he would reveal this to Valentin and some of the other Traveler-compromised individuals. It would do no good to have the irritatingly curious man accidentally find reference, or worse, decide to visit himself without the curated path Clovis would lead. It was a benign enough purpose – Valentin was still Soviet, and it was certainly not a crime for a state to have classified research institutions.

Of course, the Human experimentation wing was doubtless something Valentin and the others would object to, and a quiet halt to those experiments had been ordered, and the individuals had been returned to general Triumvirate prisons. A temporary setback, and perhaps an unnecessary hurdle. Human experimentation was crucial for development, but it could be bypassed in certain instances.

If not? Well, there were plans.

It was a matter of presentation, bluff, and deception – all of which he excelled at. Right now, Valentin was caught in the narrative he’d spun, and was playing his role quite nicely – it fell to the other Triumvirate leaders to similarly play the game with their Traveler-appointed watchers.

They were more cautious. More timid. They agreed with his path, they agreed it was necessary, certainly, but, to lie to a god? To deceive a creature of such power? Now _that_ took courage, it took _daring_. When faced with one of equivalent or greater power, people showed who they really were.

Quinn and Li would have capitulated, had he not showed them the error of their way of thinking. Gopal, of course, had folded fully. Quinn and Li were made of sterner stuff, but they still feared. They were not weak links though, they were merely pieces on his chessboard, semi-autonomous players who were essential for the endgame.

Fortunately, he had taken their caution into account and twisted it to his own benefit.

All to lull the alien into a sense of advancement.

When the new world came about, it would be championed by the watchers of the Traveler.

All according to plan.

“[General Secretary]” Clovis looked up to see a man standing at attention. He wore civilian clothing, tan khakis, a blue t-shirt, a backpack slung over his shoulder, sunglasses, and a cap turned ever-so-slightly sideways. A native of Rome, of course, and known within the community and to certain interests.

A man with a name, but not a real one. The ones who staffed the Black Armory had no true identities. To those on the surface, they seemed to live entirely normal lives. In fact, they lived within the endless labyrinth, their lives devoted to the Triumvirate. Few had the drive and stomach to sacrifice for the Black Armory, those that did were shaped into the best, smartest, and most driven of Humanity.

Of course, the Triumvirate nations still worked on their own national projects in secret – one of many decisions he saw as self-destructive for all of them – but, ever since the anomaly had appeared over Mars, the Black Armory had been returned to its full power and glory.

Clovis nodded once. “[You come from the crypt?]”

The man did not answer, instead producing a paper card. On it was an inverted arch, with the smaller emblems of each of the three main branches surrounding it. The emblem of the Black Armory. Confirmation of identity. Another nod. “[Right this way, General Secretary.]” Disguised as he was, Clovis drew no crowd as the man led him through busy streets for several blocks, though the KGB was keeping a watchful eye, regardless.

He didn’t fail to notice the man subtly crumple the card and drop it into a puddle, where it dissolved into nothing. The cards were intentionally fragile and easy to completely destroy; a necessary precaution. They entered the building – which was fairly busy,it was a legitimate tourist shop, after all – and he was led down a series of stairs to a false wall which contained the elevator to the maze below.

Stepping out into the well-marked hallways of dark steel, his guide led him through the groups of uniformed scientists, engineers, and officers who bore patches of the Black Armory on one shoulder and their branch on the other. Considering who he was meeting today, he wasn’t surprised he was being led to the branch with the sign of the butterfly.

The Branch of Human Augmentation, Enhancement, and Refinement.

One of the more fascinating, in his humble opinion, as the future of Humanity would be born in these halls Some of the people seemed to notice him, but they did not comment. They knew better than to interfere, and it was not unusual for important members of the state to visit the Armory.

The Armory was riddled with checkpoints, to a point most people would consider excessive, but it was necessary to maintain compartmentalisation. As the head of a Triumvirate state, he had access everywhere, but not everyone did. Armed and armored guards stood at each checkpoint, and every inch of the facility was surveilled by cameras, overseen by four separate groups, one for each Triumvirate nation.

“[They are in here, General Secretary,]” the man said, gesturing to a door. “[When your business is concluded, you will be escorted out. I hope your discussion is fruitful.]”

“[Appreciated,]” Clovis said with a farewell nod as he entered the room. It was spartan, like much of the facility – rooms and labs only had what they absolutely required, clutter was kept to a minimum. The streamlined aesthetics of silver, black, and grey were ever-present. Vanity items like flags, banners, and nationalistic memorabilia were absent.

This was a place of work and collaboration, not of indulgence and rivalry.

Inside, four people were waiting. Matthew Bray, an extended uncle, who was now in charge of the Bray Cybernetics division of Bray Incorporated. A true pioneer and loyalist to the cause. Nomi Satou, a true rarity, in that she ran one of the only Japan-based companies to regularly be involved in important projects of the Communist Empire. Satou Cybernetics was likely the best in the business, much as Clovis hated to admit it, and Nomi was one of the shrewdest businesswomen alive – a necessity to not only convince the Chinese to allow her to retain control, but _also_ charm, bribe, and threaten her way into the halls of power.

An admirable woman.

Then, there was Amy Meyrin, a proud and distinguished woman who cut an imposing figure. Proper, stiff, and fully controlled in her speech and actions, she was one of the most intelligent and dangerous women alive. Former CIA officers always were, and, now that she was in charge of DARPA…one could only imagine what the CIA’s own iron lady was capable of.

Clovis had considered bringing her into the fold. She was one of the few who had the backbone to understand…but first he would need to see how she managed a simpler project. His eye was on her, and he had high expectations.

Then there was Detlev Rasmussen – originally Soviet-German, who eventually emigrated to the American States and had started Connective Tissue – a low-profile neuroscience think tank that was bankrolled by the very wealthy Rasmussen family (all of whom had also emigrated to America – the rich always chafed under Soviet taxes). Clovis knew little of them – but _did_ know that they had been working with DARPA and Satou Cybernetics on something.

Something that appeared to be coming to fruition.

“General Secretary, welcome,” Matthew said, inclining his head.

“Of course,” Clovis answered cordially. “Will there be other guests?”

“Not today, General Secretary,” Amy said in a clipped voice, eyes piercing his own. “President Quinn has already been briefed, and given her approval. President Li is scheduled to visit shortly, and we similarly expect his approval. We are working with the Indians to determine if the Interim President can authorize projects such as these. Should there be majority approval, it is ultimately inconsequential.”

“Then do not waste time,” Clovis stated, clasping his hands behind his back. “Begin.”

Amy pressed a button, and the holotable they were standing around activated, showing a small moon-like object encased in a translucent ball. Just above it was another, smaller, sphere. “This is Europa,” Amy began. “A moon of Jupiter. A frozen ball of ice. Unimportant, inconsequential – and the Traveler is now over it.”

She gestured up. “Before anyone jumps to hasty conclusions – no, the Traveler is _not_ turning it into another Mars. She is doing what she has been doing to several other nearby moons. There’s hints of a stabilizing atmosphere and radiation levels are plummeting. In short? She is making it _survivable_ for us. Admiral Holliday believes that she is intending for these to be ‘outposts’ to utilize against the presumed conflict with the mortal enemy of this alien – one which she claims is coming here.”

Her face showed her skepticism. “Irrespective of the likelihood of this, the suggestion by Admiral Holliday is sound. The Black Armory has held a dedicated place in the Triumvirate for decades, and it is only proper – and necessary – that it be given similar dedication as the Triumvirate expands to the stars. With this in mind, we are proposing the ArchMoon Project – Code designation: Deep Stone Crypt.”

The transparency of the moon shifted and zoomed in to reveal the planned superstructure built directly into Europa’s ice shell itself. A plan to turn the moon into a compound without equal. Thousands of levels, wings, and labs, all within a fortress shell of unimaginable scale. Buried kilometers down, habitats for up to several million inhabitants, completely protected from the outside. The cutting edge of _everything_.

A black moon, for the most secret of projects of the Triumvirate.

A fitting moon for the Black Armory.

Amy continued on, describing some largely uninteresting datapoints about expected time, manpower, how it would start with a deep core wing, and expand further out throughout the moon. Structural stability, risks involved, all of which he heard, but didn’t personally register as _important_ – because, in the end, it wasn’t.

The metal and materials would be acquired from the upcoming Triumvirate Asteroid Mining Program – a subsidiary of the expanded Triumvirate Space Corps. Machinery could be built and manpower acquired as swiftly as everything else. Cost? The old ideas of money were dissolving before their eyes.

Funding mattered very little when one had control of the global economy.

He lifted a hand, cutting her off. “Answer me one question – is this a justifiable goal in service of the Black Armory?”

Her response was immediate. “Yes.”

“Then you have my approval, and that of the Soviet Union,” Clovis said. “I will ensure that everything is in place on our end to begin construction of the Deep Stone Crypt.” He looked around the room. “I am also assuming that this project is not the only reason I am here.”

“No,” Amy looked to the Rasmussen. “Mr. Rasmussen?”

Detlev Rasmussen inclined his head. “General Secretary, a pleasure to meet you in person. I will be brief in my summary – the scientific information and data that the Traveler has provided have heavily accelerated the research my firm has been conducting.”

“And would you care to enlighten me as to what you _are_ conducting?” Clovis asked. “I am unfamiliar with the specifics of Connective Tissue.”

“Professionally, Secretary Bray, this would be classified as a transhumanist endeavor,” he said, eyes fairly intense. “However, it is also an immortality project – one I believe the Triumvirate can utilize.”

That certainly had his attention. “Please, continue.”

“What I and my firm have been exploring is, to greatly simplify, the digitization of the Human mind, consciousness itself,” he continued. “As you can imagine, this is a highly niche, young, and largely unexplored field of study. Difficult to find backing, difficult to find interest, and very little hard data to pull from outside of the realm of science fiction. But I have always believed such to be possible, and, now, thanks to the Traveler, we have extrapolated to prove viability.”

He began to describe the exact science, and Clovis lifted a hand to cut him off. “I presume that, if you are here, the science itself is sound. I am no scientist, and, while I appreciate the transparency, it means nothing to me.” He looked around the room. “I trust some of you can vouch for his assessment?”

“Yes, I can,” Amy nodded once. “Odd as it may sound, I’ve verified with DARPA experts, and they reached similar, if _extremely preliminary_, conclusions.”

“I can confirm as well,” Nomi Satou added, glancing to him. “In fact, I am also part of this initiative. The digitization of consciousness will require electronics and cybernetics that were previously impossible to achieve. Thanks to the Traveler, prototypes are able to be conceptualized.”

“As can I, General Secretary,” Matthew said. “I’ve personally looked over the findings, and the science – for now – is plausible.”

“Noted,” Clovis nodded. “And for what purpose do you envision this ‘immortality’ taking place?”

“The immortality aspect is, ultimately, not important, as a tool, for the Triumvirate,” Detlev said. “What _is_ important is freeing the mind from the biological limitations imposed upon us. I am putting forward two programs – a small one, which can explore this idea more fully – and a larger one, that is intended to usher in the next generation of Triumvirate military power.”

Satou changed the holographic projection to a humanoid mechanical shell – it looked like a Human, and had similar proportions, but was clearly mechanical and imposing. “The Triumvirate Exoskeleton Project, or Exo, if you want to use the shortened term. We had originally conceptualized this as a form of mechanized soldier, designed to supplant Humans entirely, but, after speaking with Mr. Rasmussen, we saw the benefits of combining the two projects into a new-age supersoldier.”

“The concept is one which was previously explored to some degree,” Detlev continued. “However, the extent of those programs was very limited. Steroids, drugs, slow and superficial genetic modification. Inferior, compared to an artificial platform, where we can control so much more, a system that is more efficient and effective than an organic combatant - and which we can easily mass-produce.”

He noted the features of the proposed soldier. “Modular configuration, distributed vitality, several times the strength and speed of a human, with reaction times to match, a full suite of sensor systems and autonomous subsystems. Dr. Satou has ensured that this basic prototype would be capable of facing the finest of the US and Soviet Special Forces. And,” he paused for a moment, “This prototype will demonstrate the perfect loyalty and unquestioning decisiveness of these Exos.”Clovis nodded slowly. “A machine… a _human_ machine.”

“Indeed, General Secretary.”

“And you want to begin more serious testing.”

“We do.”

“What do you need?”

“People, in the end,” Detlev said. “We couldn’t hope to build the computer to drive the hardware from scratch, and uploaded lobsters aren’t going to suffice.” Detlev’s mouth twitched upwards. “It does not matter where they come from, in the end, though it is preferable that they be…of little importance, at least initially. It is likely that there will be a number of failures before we reach our objectives. I am aware there are certain changes taking place in regards to Human testing, but I suspect we can find alternatives.”

“There are a large number of terrorists who are due to be sentenced soon,” Clovis mused idly. “Certain to receive the death penalty. Perhaps a…reduced sentence, in exchange for participating in a dangerous experiment.”

It was a quite delicious idea. A means of skirting the irritating morality the Traveler seemed to prefer, and making the Triumvirate look benevolent in the process. After all, who was going to go to bat for a terrorist? That, he was quite sure, was a line even the Traveler would not cross.

The Exo Project did not interest him because he believed it was necessarily a _better_ next-generation soldier, but because it was one that would be firmly controlled by the _Triumvirate_, not an alien. An army whose loyalty could be assured. After all, if one could digitize a consciousness, controlling it was a simple matter.

A subtle project, one he would need to have a careful hand in. Amy’s guiding hand may be needed in this instance. Nonetheless, a perfect project to grace the labyrinth that would be the Deep Stone Crypt. An ominous, fitting code name. He liked it, melodramatic as it was. Then again, drama was what made life interesting.

“Very well,” he finally said. “Consider my approval given. Ensure I am kept informed on the progress of _both_ projects, Mr. Rasmussen.”

The man smiled. “As you wish, General Secretary. It will be my pleasure.”

***

**NEW DELHI | DELHI | REPUBLIC OF INDIAN TERRITORIES**

Two weeks of investigation, observation, and calling in favors from his many, many contacts, and Isaiah doubted there was going to be much more he could glean from the aftermath of the assassination. The Indians were still in disarray, and it was the only reason he was risking an actual on-site investigation.

The feeling had only grown stronger the more he thought about what had happened. Something was off, he’d felt it since that impromptu Resistance Council meeting. Initially, he had thought it was because he’d been out of the loop entirely, and the result had come as a surprise.

His review of the Wheel Cell’s operations laid out exactly what had happened. A perfect storm, culminating in the death of a Triumvirate head of state. Still, something had not been satisfactory about the timeline, and it bothered him that he felt that way. He disliked _feelings_ like this, with no discernable source.

But something was off.

It was beyond Jilla deciding to do her own thing – no, there were a few factors at play here.

The Triumvirate was the primary entity in contact with the Traveler.

The Triumvirate knew that the Traveler was unlikely to be an inherent ally.

The Triumvirate would need some way to maintain the status quo.

The Triumvirate was not above doing whatever they thought was necessary to maintain their power. He was confident about this – if the Triumvirate felt that they could maintain their power by murdering millions, they would do it. Would they sacrifice one of their own to begin the narrative to justify the status quo?

Internal divisions at work?

That was why he was here. A dozen Dead Cell operatives maintained ongoing operations primarily for observation. India was the chip in the Triumvirate armor – less organized, less secure, and enmeshed in the Triumvirate. They’d only been elevated to deal with the Middle East, and were in a constant race for acceptance that Isaiah doubted would ever be granted.

Not truly.

Physical evidence was not something that would help him, it wouldn’t give answers he wanted. This was not a false flag in the traditional sense, but he couldn’t help but think that the timing was suspicious. Just after they’d agreed to not give the Triumvirate bait by continuing operations, something like this happened. Not even the Traveler would speak against measures or investigations against it.

If there was a conspiracy here, it would be hidden in the context just before the event.

Which was what he was interested in.

He’d spent his days in run-down bars, high-profile strip clubs, the bustling chaos of Dalal Street, and meeting with the small clique of contacts whom he trusted. From soldiers, to administration officials, to police, to intelligence agents. Some knew who he really was, others did not.

Gossip, rumor, and secrets were the currencies he sought, ones which he traded for information, money, or gifts of his own. The shadow economy the Resistance had mastered came in handy, and this particular outing had proven to be a fairly expensive one, especially for a mission that few would view as necessary.

In his small hideout in a shantytown on the outskirts of New Delhi, he stood in front of his desk of operations. A collection of documents, photos, and artifacts was scattered on it, accompanying a pinboard on the wall, which was covered in scribbled notes. His pinboards were slightly more organized than the ones portrayed in American spy movies, but the overall purpose was still the same.

“[You are enjoying this.]”

Sagira appeared with a blue burst in front of him, which told him he’d been thinking it over for a noticeable amount of time. She had a different shell now, forgoing the star-like shape in favor of something smaller and more ornate. The eye was still the centerpiece, but she had modified the fins to be narrower, sharper, and smaller. Floating now, she reminded him more of a piece of jewelry than a machine.

The only reason she had done that was to be less conspicuously present in his excursions. She could wrap his shell tightly around his arm, forming a kind of armband. It definitely wasn’t an obvious machine, and no one he’d spoken to had really seemed suspicious of it (though there had been some comments).

She wasn’t especially a fan of doing it, and preferred to hover normally, but she could manage when they went out – and, more importantly, she could provide her own analysis and input. She’d been helpful, and her scanners had proven invaluable during some of the more _illegal_ parts of the investigation.

“[Enjoying may be a stretch,]” he said, answering her statement.

“[Is it?]”

He pursed his lips. “[I tend to enjoy solving problems that are based in something tangible – and which don’t lead to more questions than answers.]”

“[And you’ve still not determined an answer?]”

“[Not one I’m satisfied with, no.]”

There were three pieces of information which were most useful to him.

One: the rumors that there had been tensions between Gopal and the rest of the Triumvirate. Isaiah didn’t know how relevant this would be, in the end, it was hardly something unusual. The Americans and Chinese had been at each other’s throats for some time, the Soviets liked playing all sides, and India obviously didn’t like being treated like the odd one out.

That there was tension there was unsurprising. What made it a bit more noteworthy was that, ever since the Traveler had appeared, the Triumvirate had been working to put up a united front – publicly and privately. It was common knowledge at this point that Clovis Bray was the driving force – he’d made a name for himself pursuing intra-Triumvirate reconciliation, and had entered into office with a focus on ending the infighting.

The arrival of the Traveler had been a massive boon for him.

With that context, tensions between Gopal and one or more members was a little more unusual, but, then again…was it? It was a genuine intelligence gap they had, and, for all he knew, there was tension _everywhere_, as they couldn’t have had the same idea of what to do when Terra One had returned, could they?

Still, the rumors ranged from Gopal being upset that the Republic was being overlooked (plausible), to actively alienating certain heads of state of the Triumvirate (risky, but also plausible), to privately breaking with them, and threatening to go rogue over the Traveler situation (unlikely).

_If_ – and that was a big if – Gopal _had_ privately decided to go against whatever the Triumvirate’s plan was, it was entirely possible he would have been considered a loose end. If something happened to him in that scenario, it could be justified.

Second piece of information: the Triumvirate _had_ known that there was something coming. That on its own wasn’t surprising – it was impossible to keep everything hidden from the Triumvirate, intentionally or otherwise. Considering the operation, though, it was very valuable.

The frustrating thing was that he didn’t know _what_ they’d known – according to his intelligence contact, all they’d known was that there was a ‘major operation’ planned. Not exactly a groundbreaking or damning prediction. The smoking gun, in his eyes, of foul play – would be if the Triumvirate had evidence of the attack, and had _intentionally_ let it happen.

However, the _worst_ that he’d heard was that the Triumvirate had known that there was an attack on a ‘major Indian figure’ happening within a few weeks – Isaiah had not heard a single insinuation that _anyone_ had known the exact details, methods, or even who the target was. The KGB in particular was notorious for taking forever to act on intelligence they were unsure about – which meant that, by the time they found confirmation, the intelligence was either outdated or irrelevant.

Of course, Isaiah could respect the professionalism, but, in reality, the only reason that attitude had developed was because mistakes had led to some PR disasters and gotten agents killed, assets purged, and damage suffered – leading to those who had overseen these failures to face the swift and lethal end of Soviet justice.

The _one_ thing – the _only_ thing that gave him pause was the last piece of information.

Everyone _but_ India had known about a ‘major operation’ ahead of time. Supposedly, it had been either the Chinese or Soviets who’d had the most accurate intelligence, according to both a military and an intel contact, but none of them had passed it along. The justification was that they were verifying the intel, but, even still…

One would think that, if there was a chance something could happen, the territory in question should be informed, no?

It was far from damning evidence – but it was enough to tell him his feeling wasn’t completely baseless.

He knew it was likely that there were _some_ tensions between Gopal and the wider Triumvirate, that there _had_ been intelligence that indicated the fatal attack, that India had likely _not_ received it, and that the arrival of the Traveler threatened the existing Triumvirate power structure and global hegemony.

Question one: would the Triumvirate deliberately let a major attack happen to maintain their power? Yes.

Question two: was it possible that this was a coincidence, and the Triumvirate was simply planning to exploit the situation for their own benefit? Also yes.

Question three: was this wholly unrelated to the Traveler, and the actions of the Triumvirate to fully puppet India fully with a leader they considered reliable? Potentially.

Too much circumstantial evidence, too much hearsay, too little hard _proof_.

It was eerie.

It was no question if the Triumvirate was exploiting this – the question was if they had instigated it. Right now, _especially _now, it felt like the Resistance was being played. On the cusp of having to change, of having to face something which was beyond their power, they were struck by tragedy from a long-time enemy.

Now, the system had reason.

_If_ – _if_ this was deliberate, the question then became who the mastermind was.

The answer seemed obvious. If this was deliberate, it was far too subtle for the Triumvirate. It was a level of deception and tact he somewhat admired. But just _what_ had been the biggest change within the Triumvirate in the past six months?

Clovis Bray.

He’d marked Bray as dangerous from the moment his name had started popping up in consideration for the Soviet Central Committee. His rhetoric, accomplishments, and sheer _drive_ made him atypical from the more standard Triumvirate heads of state. Still, master politician he may be, was Clovis _this_ conniving and machiavellian?

Potentially.

He needed an answer.

“[It is frustrating,]” he finally said. “[I have the pieces, but none are solid enough to confirm my suspicion or solve the problem. I am missing something important.]”

“[If your suspicion is correct, it is likely that such will manifest itself again,]” Sagira said, floating up to him. “[Perhaps this is not something you are meant to solve now. I agree that it is suspicious, but, right now…there is no indication you are right.]”

“[From the others in the Triumvirate.]”

A bob. “[Yes.]”

“[I see,]” he pursed his lips and scribbled a small note on a paper scrap. “[You’re right, you know.]”

“[About?]”

“[This. I enjoy it. Problem solving.]” Another scribbled note. “[I think it’s why I’ve been good in this role. All operations are problems that can be solved. The perfect strategy isn’t hard to determine, it’s your resources and tools that limit how you solve it.]”

“[I may be wrong, but I suspect this inclination was not for warfare, was it?]”

“[No, it’s a funny story,]” he said, deadpan. “[You know what I wanted to be before Australia? A scientist. Probably a physicist or chemist. Point was, I always wanted to know how things worked. People, machines, systems. But it was always the…]” he gestured vaguely around him. “[World, I suppose, that was the biggest mystery. There were still phenomena that had no answers, and many more mysteries of the world to discover.]”

A thin, sad smile played on his lips. “[Unfortunately, there is little practical use for such a dreamer in war. No, Sagira, I didn’t ever want this, but perhaps it was who I was meant to be. The greatest ‘problem’ in the world is the Triumvirate, and, if my only act is to solve it, I will be satisfied.]”

“[I see,]” she said after a few moments. “[I wouldn’t give up on your original dream – you may yet live in a world where you don’t have to fight.]”

That thought amused him. “[Will I? We shall see. Even if it happens…]” he trailed off, and shrugged. “[A bridge to cross when it is relevant. Help me take images of all of this.]”

“[I can, but why?]”

“[Because we’re leaving in a few hours. I’ve gotten everything I need to from here, and I saw a few too many KGB officers here for me to be comfortable.]”

“[Very well, though you _do_ know I can always just teleport you back?]”

“[I’m aware, but better safe than sorry, Sagira. Let’s not waste time, alright?]”

***

**BRAYTECH FUTURESCAPE CONSTRUCTION SITE | MARS**

It was somehow almost nostalgic to be back to Mars, only a few months after he had met the Traveler and everything had changed. The terraforming of the planet was fully complete, and the Triumvirate was wasting no time in industrializing it further. According to Clovis, it was primarily going to be used for some of the ‘special’ projects the Triumvirate was managing, one of which was a dedicated BrayTech facility, still in the early stages of construction.

Even though the facility was just a shell, Valentin could tell it was going to be a rather impressive design. He’d never been inside any BrayTech facility before, but he’d always liked how their buildings looked. Sleek, curved, very futuristic.

Triumvirate transport ships were docked near the site itself, and thousands of workers, architects, and engineers were crawling all over the site. It reminded him of the efforts to build Terra One, only on a Triumvirate-level scale. He also saw a few people with Ghosts around, which he was pleased by. Good to see that others besides him were actively being involved.

The sounds of construction were constant as they walked through the site. Buzzing, searing, banging, all typical of a construction project this massive. It wasn’t exactly cleaned or organized, boxes of components and tools were strewn around, along with piles of boards, metal sheets, and beams in red-dusted packaging.

But all of that was normal here.

Today, he was here not just to see the construction of the first major off-world Triumvirate facility, but the unique mission it was undertaking. “[We’re expecting the construction to take several months before completion,]” Clovis was saying as they walked. “[The outside isn’t pretty, but there are already some small labs up and running in the interior. It’s significant progress considering my last visit.]”

“[I’m looking forward to seeing them,]” Valentin nodded as Vigil hovered around his shoulder. “[Though, I’m afraid artificial intelligence isn’t my forte.]”

Clovis chuckled – an expression that seemed genuine. Valentin was still unsure of if his friendly persona was real or just a well-done act. Maybe both, in some ways. “[Not to worry. I confess, it isn’t mine either. Fortunately, one of the project leads will be there, and she’ll be able to answer any questions you have.]”

Some light small talk took place as they trudged up the dusty steps; it was still somewhat surreal that he was regularly talking to the _General Secretary_ of the Soviet Union – one of the most powerful men in the world. Of course, the cynical part said it was to get on the Traveler’s good side, but the actions he was taking _seemed_ real, even if it wasn’t being done for the best of reasons.

Skeptical as he was, he couldn’t deny that Clovis was being transparent about his decisions.

They stopped a few times on the way to the labs, with Clovis insisting on speaking to some of the people, usually some managers or site leads, who gave short updates, but also some of the workers, who looked surprised, but awed at personally meeting the General Secretary. Valentin could admit he could see why Clovis had the popular support he did. Genuine or no, he _did_ have an affinity for being personable.

Deeper into the construction site they went, being careful to stay within the confines of the yellow construction tape. With the size of some of the equipment, Valentin was more than willing to stay away. He didn’t want to lose a hand, or worse, by being curious, especially on a site this large.

He did wonder why they were building it on the edge of a cliff, though. It didn’t seem to be the safest choice of location.

Clovis pushed some transparent wrap aside and they stepped into the singular part of the site that _looked_ the BrayTech – a medium-sized computer lab with steady air conditioning, sleek white walls with FUTURESCAPE MINDLAB painted onto them, neatly organized rows of computers, and technicians sitting in front of them, completely focused on the tasks they were given.

It seemed like they were going to speak to the woman at the end of the room, the marked superior in the ever-sleek white and orange BrayTech uniform. “[Valentin, may I introduce you to Project Lead Ana Bray.]”

Valentin resisted his eyebrows shooting up at the mention. _Ana_ Bray, the General Secretary’s other daughter. He wasn’t really surprised that a Bray was involved in a project like this – BrayTech was literally run by them – but it was interesting that _both_ of Clovis’ daughters were in pretty prominent roles.

Nepotism? Or were they actually qualified?

Ana Bray was remarkably young for a senior position though – she definitely wasn’t much older than Valentin, if at all. She was shorter than he was by a good few centimeters, had relatively short cropped hair (fairly atypical for Soviet women – that was more of an American thing), and lightly tanned skin on a face which had distinctly Asian features, also very atypical, until he remembered that Clovis was married to a Chinese immigrant. The family resemblance was definitely not apparent.

Still, she smiled widely as he approached and eagerly shook his hand. “[Hello there! I’m happy to actually meet you in person! I’ve heard so much.]”

Oh, a fan. Wonderful. She did seem genuinely friendly though. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but he could immediately tell that it was a bit different from Clovis’ friendliness. He returned the smile, a guarded one, as he shook the hand. “[Happy to be here – Clovis tells me that you’re working on one of the more important projects – you’re in charge of it?]”

“[In _charge_?]” She laughed brightly. “[Not of the whole thing. I’m only project lead on one part of it. How much did he explain?]” She glanced inquisitively at Clovis.

“[None,]” the General Secretary answered mischievously. “[I thought it best if you explained it – it would have prompted a volley of questions I’m frankly unprepared to answer.]”

“[Father,]” she chided with a sigh, and ran a hand through her hair. “[In that case, I’m part of the Warmind Project, a fairly new initiative that – in the broadest terms – seeks to modernize and centralize _everything,_ in regards to our defenses, military, and research.]”

“[Warmind?]” Valentin and Vigil asked simultaneously.

“[Yes,]” Ana nodded vigorously. “[That is what we are calling them. It’s the biggest artificial intelligence project in the Triumvirate’s history.]”

Valentin noded. “[Something like… White Hand?]”

Ana pursed her lips. Then she looked up. “[That’s what most people think, but it’s not what we’re after. White Hand, the American Defense Intelligence… they’re all primitive AIs, barely worth the name. A bit of symbolic logic and a big database, just an expert system. You were a cosmonaut, yes? You’ll know Dasha. Have probably worked with some computers you were told contained artificial neural networks.]”

Valentin nodded his assent. Every cosmonaut knew Dasha, the “robot doctor”.

“[We are not interested in something of that level,]” Ana continued. “[There’s not even real..._reasoning_ there. Each Warmind, on the other hand, will be a self-iterating superintelligence, a _true_ general intelligence that can solve any problem a human can - and do it faster and _better_ than a million humans could hope to.]”

Valentin nodded along. “[So more like Guardian?]”

Ana sighed. “[And this is why I hate pop culture. It gives people the wrong impressions about AI. None of the Warminds will have a personality like you or me - or Vigil, here - would define it. They will be task-focused minds. They will protect us, but they won’t feel love or hate or disgust or...emotions like what we feel, and they won’t be… _people_. That is also why we call them Warminds.]”

Valentin gave a small nod. “[That sounds a lot more complex than I first thought. It will probably take a long time, right?]”

“[Yes, even with all of the methods, data, and technology the Traveler has shared, it will take years, maybe decades to bring them to the final iteration,]” Ana gave a small shrug. “[But we don’t have to build Rome in one day. We’ll be building the Warminds step by step, training them at each point. We’ll keep the instances that deliver the results we want, and discard those that don’t. Even though we will go through millions of different iterations before we reach Phase 2, once we have the foundations, the Warminds can build themselves. We’ll just help along and educate and train them as they grow into the roles we seeded into them in that early phase.]”

Ana gestured at herself. “[I’m the Rasputin Warmind project lead, so to give a brief overview of what this Warmind is intended to do, Rasputin will optimize our overall strategy in any war or _potential_ war we face,]” her eyes focused on Vigil. “[Relevant to us is this ‘Darkness’ threat – the idea of Rasputin was the inception for the Warmind Project, and ultimately the most important one that will be developed.]”

“[Ah, so this is to prepare for the Darkness. The Traveler will approve,]” Vigil bobbed in the air.

“[All of the Warminds have a defensive military component,]” Ana nodded. “[Warmind Washington is focused purely on defensive optimization, Warmind Mao is focused on offensive counterattacks, Warmind Gandhi on insurgency and counter-insurgency, and Warmind Monroe on logistics and communication – Rasputin is the one that ties all of those together into one cohesive grand strategy.]”

“[You’re doing _five_ Warminds here?]” He asked.

“[No, no,]” she quickly refuted. “[BrayTech is only managing Rasputin. The Confederation is managing Washington and Monroe – Washington by DARPA and Monroe as a joint American Intelligence Community project. The Communist Empire is handling Mao – primarily a military project. India is handling Gandhi, and there are a number of private and state groups working on it.]”

That made sense, if the names hadn’t already been a clue. Seemed like a smart strategy. “[I’ll give you a little tour, and explain a bit more how the process works,]” Ana said, waving to follow as they exited the lab, and back to the construction site exterior.

“[So, to give an example of how we’re training Rasputin, we’re in the process of turning vast quantities of military and strategic data into something to feed into him,]” Ana continued. “[We’re starting with small battles now, small-scale actions. Victories, defeats, everything relevant from earliest history to the Australian Conflict. What we want is for him to identify the optimal decisions based on the data. Once he has a grasp of that, we’ll slowly start expanding to larger scenarios.]”

“[Doesn’t that make the Mao Warmind redundant?]” Valentin asked. “[Or the Washington one for that matter?]”

“[I can see how you’d ask that, but no,]” Ana said. “[The Warminds are designed to be distributed by nature, and each carry some redundancy for each other. Rasputin is… the dreamer. The schemer you could call him as well. He’s meant to think big and wide, to evaluate every dusty little branch of the probability tree. Civilizational survival strategy. _Why_ should we attack _there_, _why_ is it prudent that we hold back here. So, in a hypothetical scenario, let’s say Rasputin said we should achieve this goal, he gives us the justification, and it seems good. You following me?]”

Valentin nodded and she continued at a brisk speaking space. “[Now that we have a goal, we turn that over to Mao. Mao would plot the actual executive strategies and decisions for that particular conflict. It figures out how to fulfill the objectives Rasputin outlines, with what resources and technology. Now, there seems to be overlap - after all, Rasputin has to understand resources and technologies and the realities of military conflict as well. But this approach makes system design much more manageable. We’ll train each warmind in their domain first, _then_ converge them into a coherent group. We fear that, if we tried this with one mind, the result may be an incoherent mess.]”

“[That makes sense,]” Valentin said with a nod.

“[Did you consider making the Mao Warmind a sub-mind of Rasputin?]” Vigil asked.

“[For a time, but we rejected it,]” Ana said. “[As I said, building one mind of that size was judged to have too great a failure risk. With the separate minds we can develop in parallel, and it introduces further redundancy. Once the Warminds have been up for a while, they will be able to compensate for the loss of any one of them. Besides, we have the resources and time, so this was the direction we went.]”

She coughed as a brief burst of dust blew into them. “[Back to my hypothetical, Rasputin could also identify a place that is likely to be attacked, or is uniquely vulnerable. This would then be taken over by Washington who would identify the specific weaknesses and how to fix them, in a similar vein to Mao. Again, grand strategy versus tactical when comparing Rasputin to Mao and Washington.]”

“[With Monroe as support,]” Valentin finished.

“[Exactly,]” Ana nodded.

“[And Gandhi?]” Vigil floated slightly in front of them as they reached a catwalk into a massive unfinished structure above a ravine – Valentin was deliberately not looking down. “[Its mission seems distinctly separate from this. Rarely does one encounter insurgency against the Darkness – not in the sense your people are familiar with.]”

“[Contingency, and because we’re _still_ dealing with terrorists,]” Ana sighed. “[Had a lot of debate over that one. Domestic issues are outside of Rasputin’s core mandate, and I’m not comfortable putting too much onto the plate of one viewpoint. Doesn’t mesh as well. Gandhi was the stopgap solution. The assassination of President Gopal was the last straw. If we’re having heads of state assassinated, then terrorism is still a danger, one we need to make sure doesn’t happen. Even if it doesn’t stop terrorism entirely, it should at least prevent something similiar from happening again.]”

Made sense, even if Valentin was wary of exactly _how_ that would be utilized. He didn’t really have a good reason _not_ to do it, considering what had happened. Irrespective of the Triumvirate’s issues, terrorism was worse. “[Where are we going?]” He asked.

“[To what will one day be the Rasputin Core,]” she said as they entered the shell of the diamond superstructure. “[One of them, anyway. We’re planning to have multiple cores throughout the system, so, in case one goes down, it’s not the end. Rasputin will be able to spin up his core processes at another site. Given how dangerous this Darkness is, we can’t be too careful.]”

“[You really can’t,]” Vigil agreed.

The sheer size of the structure was awe-inspiring, even in its unfinished state. It was vast, if hollow, and the size of the machines and people in comparison really showcased how impressive the endeavor was. Ana seemed to notice. “[It’ll be more impressive once it’s finished. Imagine this space filled with computer racks. We’re thinking of a proper representation of the grand scale of Rasputin somewhere in the center. An interface location if you want.]”

Valentin looked to Vigil. “[Has the Traveler used artificial intelligence like this before?]”

The fins of the Ghost spun as it floated out over the catwalk and hollow ravine below. “[Usually not on this scale; She is… wary of such synthetic intelligences. They are prone to failures and hostile divergences - and vulnerable to the Darkness. A machine can only channel paracausality, it cannot be paracausal itself. It is at an inherent disadvantage against something like the Darkness.]”

“[In combat, sure,]” Ana shrugged. “[For making decisions? It’s an advantage. We have small brains and limited bandwidth - the Warminds won’t. They can think faster, about more things with more knowledge, and will be more objective than we ever are. As long as we don’t become over-reliant on the Warminds, this can only help us.]”

“[She has...experienced the cost of overreliance on advanced technologies such as these,]” Vigil said. “[There was a species - the Ecumene Collective. They were masters of machines, and had shining fleets and automata that managed their society. They faced the Darkness, and, despite their power, the Darkness soon identified the hearts of their martial matrix and attacked. The machine minds had no defences like the Lightbearers. The Ecumene were scattered and left leaderless from their reliance on their technology, and were wiped out.]”

“[Really?]” Ana asked, her eyes lighting up. “[Uh...not to derail the conversation too much, but I’d _really_ like to know more about these Ecumene. If you can share that, obviously.]”

“[I’d be happy to,]” Vigil’s fins clicked and the single eye flashed. “[There are so many unique species and stories to share about those who have worked and fought with the Traveler.]

“[Great! Well, I’ll wait until we’re done. Dad, you want to stick around afterwards?]”

Clovis smiled. “[Well, I do not think I can stay for much longer - the duties of my role require my attention, but I confess to being interested in such a people and conflict.]”

“[Then that’s what we’ll do then,]” Valentin said. “[Once we’re finished here, obviously.]”

“[Indeed. Irrespective of it all, this is an impressive endeavor, in any case,]” Vigil said. “[One we should keep updated on, Valentin.]”

“[Agreed,]” Valentin said. This had the potential to be one of the most important projects against the Darkness.

It fell to him to ensure that it was used in that way.

***

**RESISTANCE HEADQUARTERS | TEL AVIV | ISRAEL**

Hamaza wasn’t sure he’d heard correctly. “_Africa?_”

“Africa,” Liberman said dryly with a nod, putting a file down on the table. “The Triumvirate is making their move now, it seems.”

“Arrogant bastards,” Arya muttered. “Only a matter of time. Traveler’s emboldened them to finish their assimilation.”

“Which is why we have to stop it,” Liberman said. “Africa is the only continent that is outside their sphere of influence, and only because they’ve been preoccupied with other things. The Triumvirate isn’t going to invade now – not with the Traveler watching closely – but they will be applying economic influence.”

“Africa has a significant number of militias,” Amjah said thoughtfully. “None of whom are fond of the Triumvirate. A Quds African branch is feasible, and armed resistance is the only thing which is going to make them reconsider.”

“Pause for a moment,” Isaiah interrupted, pushing himself off the wall and moving to the group. “I want to hear the official line.”

“Same as you’d expect,” Liberman shrugged. “To establish a ‘mutually beneficial agreement’ and work to ‘invest in the future of Africa’. PR propaganda. The Chinese have been making low-level inroads for years, but the Soviets are planning to go all-in on Morocco, Algeria, and Libya.”

“And it’s not token foreign contributions,” Arya added. “MI6 got ahold of several documents passed by the Soviet state media. It’s going to be a big event. We’re talking _billions_ of dollars invested. Bray Incorporated is planning to open _three dozen_ plants across the three nations. This is an economic takeover in all but name.”

“An invasion without soldiers,” Liberman’s voice was impressed. “And with all of the nations suffering badly, this will not only save them, but elevate them far above their peers.”

“And it’s only the beginning,” Arya said grimly. “Economy is the first part. They’ll start moving to defense cooperation. There will be Soviet-trained officers, Soviet-trained engineers, Soviet-trained law enforcement. This isn’t limited to the Soviets either – there’s rumblings that a large number of American corporations are going to be investing heavily in various African countries over the next six months. South Africa, Liberia, and other Confederation-friendly countries. There are rumors President Quinn is going to make it a national priority.”

All bad news. Hamaza had a very bad feeling about all of it. “And what should we do about it? Attacking humanitarian projects will reflect badly on us.”

“Obviously, we leave the Africans out of it,” Liberman said. “ There are some big names planning to make their debut. People in high places within the Soviet, American, and Chinese regimes. It gives us opportunities to assassinate, infiltrate, and sabotage. If the Triumvirate is foolish enough to expose themselves like this, then we should exploit it.”

“Are all of you actually thinking about this?” Isaiah interrupted, his eyes flashing. “Have none of you considered that this is _bait_?”

“Of _course_ it’s bait,” Liberman snorted. “They are daring us to stop them. They believe we will be cowed because we are afraid of offending their new celestial patron. I have no doubt this is intentional and planned, Osiris. In the end, it does not matter. Our options are these: we do nothing and the Triumvirate absorbs the last continent on Earth, or we attempt to limit them and justify the Triumvirate’s fear.”

Liberman’s tone turned hard. “It is Africa today. Tomorrow it will be Israel. It will be Canada. It will be the United Kingdom. I will not coddle the Triumvirate as they lay the groundwork for their _peaceful_ takeover of my nation. What good is resistance if we do not _resist_?”

“Because this _isn’t_ the same situation we were in a few months ago,” Isaiah shot back. “The power is the Traveler, and the Triumvirate knows they can’t do anything unless She approves it. It’s obvious pandering, and with each attack, the Triumvirate can continue their justification for the status quo.” He shook his head. “It’s a catch-22 we’re in, but I agree that we can’t do nothing.”

“There is no equivalence,” Arya said. “If the Traveler cannot understand why the Triumvirate must be destroyed, then she is an idiot and we should dismiss what matters. Either she is smart enough to understand the context, or she is against us and we are doomed.”

“And what are you planning?” Sagira blinked into existence. “How does hurting these people help your cause?”

“We’re not going to hurt the Africans,” Liberman said.

“You said that they are poor and desperate, and the Triumvirate investment would help them,” Sagira countered. “How would that not hurt them?”

Liberman frowned. “If you sincerely believe that this investment is in the best interest of these nations, you are naïve. With a single stroke, the Soviet Union will supplement domestic industries and communities because they are better organized, funded, and supported. The nations will be incapable of self-sufficiency. How receptive do you believe they will be to Triumvirate demands when their countries are wholly dependent on them for survival? The investment is a trap – the Soviets are operating from a position of strength and they know it.”

“But the people would nonetheless be helped,” Sagira pointed out. “Can you blame them for accepting, even if it is not in their best interests in the long term?”

“No, but that, ultimately, is not the point,” Liberman said. “There are only so many ways the Triumvirate can be hurt. There are few places where their influence is limited. If those places are lost, it is over forever. There are opportunities to take. If we do not, then we might as well surrender forever – and that is something I can never support.”

Isaiah didn’t look happy, but he gave a slight nod. “I agree. But I have another idea.”

“Go ahead.”

“We do what the Triumvirate is doing,” Isaiah said. “Approach their leaders. Make our case. We have military experts of our own. Arya, MI6 has compromised industries and companies worldwide who could invest in nations. They are Triumvirate-based, yes, but it is not state directed. We have smuggling rings to bring in food, supplies, electronics. Ryan, you have Catholic resources, and the church has a scholarship program, yes?”

The priest gave a short nod. “It does.”

“I guarantee that these nations know the dangers of accepting the Triumvirate’s help,” Isaiah said. “But they see themselves as having no choice. They have no alternative – and we can give them one. It’s not as good, not as strong, and won’t help as many – but it’s something they didn’t have before.”

Hamaza nodded approvingly. “I do believe that is an appropriate response. One that resists, without justifying the Triumvirate’s abuses.”

Liberman seemed to consider. “Expenditures to support an entire country would be…vast, but perhaps necessary. I will need to confer with the Prime Minister. The idea has merit, but…”

“If we all leverage what we can, it could be done,” Arya spoke up, to Hamaza’s surprise. “More importantly – we will have a nation allied to us in a sense. One that is, at least, not hostile. Israel and the United Kingdom alone are not enough. The only reason more did not resist was the threat of nuclear annihilation and invasion. The Traveler has removed that concern. We can make a stronger pitch now that their survival is not on the line.”

Liberman nodded once. “A fair point.”

“The question, of course, is how we do this,” Isaiah mused.

Hamaza smiled. “I may just have an idea – one which is sure to infuriate the Triumvirate.”

***

**ZHONGNANHAI | BEIJING | CHINESE COMMUNIST EMPIRE**

To say Fang was nervous was an understatement.

No one, certainly not a mere Taikonaut, would ever publicly question a decision the Politburo or the Party was making. Even the highest of Chinese society would refrain from public critique. No one critiqued or questioned the Party here, not if they wished a carefree life for themselves or loved ones.

And that, Fang knew, was a problem. A problem that no one wanted to face, and, until someone did, it would remain in perpetuity. This was technically not _as_ dangerous – the rule in question had not yet been approved – but it was merely ceremony. Legislation did not happen like it did in America. When it was written, it was merely a few rubber stamps away from becoming law, with the Party only maintaining a thin veneer of a ‘democratic’ process.

Which was not to say the process didn’t have its merits. It certainly cut out the red tape and partisanship that plagued democracies, but there were instances where it very much was _not ideal_, and now was one of those times.

The Party had wasted no time in responding to the assassination of Gopal. While the uproar had been muted from the public – many of whom already saw India as unstable, and, more to the point, didn’t like Gopal to begin with, the Politburo and Party had immediately condemned the attack, and highlighted that measures which needed to be considered for the “safety of the Imperial citizenry”.

President Li had appeared on state media for a full week, as he showed off the aftermath of the attack and ways in which the current security legislation was inadequate had been an illuminating experience to document just how _extensive_ the Chinese surveillance apparatus truly was. Fang had known it was extensive, but the research he’d done (some of which was through…mildly illegal sources) showed just how deep it went.

Fang was mildly annoyed that none of the many news anchors had actually pushed back, especially since the President’s arguments had largely centered around hypotheticals and the most out-there examples of potential vulnerabilities. Fang’s “favorite” one was the idea of a Pakistani suicide bomber who pretended to be pregnant while using a bomb as a mock womb to be used against a daycare. That situation was so mind-bogglingly ridiculous and hilarious that he was surprised no one had laughed when he’d said it – all to justify more invasive searches on pregnant women in airports and checkpoints.

Of all the things China needed to worry about, Fang suspected that wasn’t one of them.

And it was far from the only proposal. Some were ridiculous, but others were more insidious. One that especially unnerved him was the expansion of the “neighborhood watch” system, which encouraged citizens to report on each other. It was rather limited, and only promoted in areas where there was high crime. The legislation would expand and promote the program nationwide, and Fang could only see that going poorly.

His sister had outright admitted that a majority of tips they’d gotten from it were useless, but they were required to investigate each one. Applied to a national scale, it would be chaos, make everyone suspicious of each other, and, more than likely, convict some wholly innocent people.

Not worth it.

Today was the last day for arguments or Party members to give their support or dissent for the legislation. Three days had been devoted to it, and Fang had been lucky to get in on the last day. Normally, it was reserved for Party-approved experts and senior members, but, thanks to his _unique_ situation, he had also qualified.

It was packed with Party members and state (and some foreign) media, which dutifully broadcast the proceedings. It followed a similar script – the person would stand before the attending Politburo, focus on a specific part of the legislation, praise it profusely, and state how this was what China needed to keep safe. Cue applause and the individual would sit back down, looking way too pleased with themselves.

It was amazing how much these people could say without saying anything at all. It was grandiose, ponderously eloquent, and made everything five times longer than it needed to be. It wouldn’t have been bad if it was at least interesting, but Fang swore that every single speech followed the exact same format.

No wonder no one paid attention to government if it was like this. Not only was it pompous and borderline incomprehensible, it was just _boring_. Literally no one spoke like these people did. Nevertheless, he was occasionally checking the viewing numbers, which were in the millions.

For better or worse, he was the reason. The press had gotten word of his attendance, and had promoted it gleefully. It seemed likely the Party was expecting his endorsement – it would be very powerful, coming from him. The funny thing was he hadn’t ever indicated that’s what he was going to do, it was just something…assumed.

If he did it, he was sure he and his family would be very rewarded for it.

It would be a lot easier to just accept that the measures were necessary.

But something needed to change. If not him, then who?

“[Fang Sov.]”

His cue.

“[Tell them the truth,]” Shadow hovered at his shoulder, highly conspicuous throughout the entire event. He definitely felt a little more safe with the little machine around. “[You can do it.]”

He could, but it certainly wasn’t an easy thing.

He walked to the podium as the Politburo looked down on him in the auditorium. He could hear the cameras snapping as the news crews eyeballed him, and there was some excitement in the room for the first time in this long, dull affair. Previously distracted or sleepy attendees were alert, eyes glued to the young Taikonaut.

Fang’s tongue briefly caught in his throat, but he pushed through it. “[Honored members of the Politburo, Central Committee attendees, and members of the Communist Party, I am privileged to be speaking before you today, and to add my contribution to this ongoing debate on the safety of our nation.]”

A standard opening – one which, nonetheless, generated some applause. “[I have been carefully listening to the arguments surrounding this security legislation – legislation which would go further than any existing measures, in response to the tragic events surrounding President Gopal’s assassination.]”

He bowed his head, a brief moment of silence. “[There have been many statements that have been compelling, and testimonies thought-provoking. However, I have come to the conclusion that this security legislation put forward is not only unnecessary, but actively damaging to the safety of the Communist Empire.]”

There was an uncharacteristic breakout of murmurings behind him. Fang idly wondered at their expressions. The Politburo itself had mixed reactions, a couple showing surprise at his blunt approach. “[I will briefly explain my reasoning,]” Fang swallowed, then continued. “[While tragic, it is first worth noting that the attack took place in India – not China. China has not experienced a major terrorist attack in almost a decade – thanks to the efforts of the Central Committee to smartly curb flaws in the previous legislation. Since then, our nation has been one of the most secure in the world. To the Party, I must ask, for what reason are we altering measures that have already been succeeding by every objective metric?]”

Oh yes, he definitely had the attention of everyone. The Politburo were all staring at him, their faces hard and expressionless. “[While I do not mean to draw comparisons of tragedy, we did not alter our measures when the Vice President of the Confederation was assassinated years ago, and today should be no different. If anything, we stand as proof that our measures are working as necessary, thanks to the men and women who work tirelessly to keep the Empire safe.]”

He briefly paused. “[It is, of course, more than that. With this legislation, we tell the world that we give into fear. We say to our people that none can be trusted – in fact, our citizens are _encouraged_ to spy on one another, and shatter the brotherhood of our people. The Empire cannot be brought down by an outside force, but this plants the seeds for our downfall from within. Honored members of the Party, I must ask how this is in the best interests of the Empire, or our safety?]”

Almost done, he just had to keep going a bit longer. “[We have avoided the worst of these terrorists because _we have won_. There is no need to combat an enemy which is so irrelevant it is defeated. Today, what we debate is not if our nation is safe, it is not if more restrictions need to be imposed, it is if we acknowledge that these terrorists pose a _threat_ to us. Honored Politburo, if such is the case, they are not only a threat to the citizens of the Empire, but to the Party itself, and should not more expansive measures be taken? Yet, if these are paltry terrorists, why do we elevate vermin and give them the recognition they crave?]”

He rested a hand on the podium. “[I am not willing to concede that these terrorists pose a large enough threat to us that we potentially lay the groundwork of our own demise. If we do not stand strong in the face of danger, then we become clay for them to mold through violence. As they show – they do not even need to attack China for their actions to cause reverberations across the world. Is this the power we wish to give to the Grand Ayatollah and his Israeli puppetmasters who perpetuate networks of terror across the world? I say no, I reject this admission of defeat. I recommend that that the proposed security legislation be rejected, and we jointly announce our intention to denounce these terrorists, stand in support of the Indian Republic, and send a message to these terrorists that they will not frighten us into changing our way of life.]”

He bowed his head slightly. “[Honored Politburo, thank you for your consideration, and I yield my time to the Chairman.]”

“[Thank you, Fang Sov,]” the Chairman said, clearing his throat awkwardly. “[The chair accepts your yield.]”

Fang turned around, and faced the faces of the members, many of whom were looking up in awe over his speech. Some were clearly furious, but others seemed almost supportive. Was he going to get applause? For a few seconds, it didn’t seem like he would, but then one clap started, and was joined by another.

The applause was nowhere near as intense as some of the others, probably about a third of the total attendees…but it was something, and something to be proud of. A few of the more disgusted members had turned their backs to him, but he’d done what he needed to, and the cameras were trained on his every move as he returned to take his seat.

_I think that went well,_ he thought to his Ghost.

_As did I. The media tried to cut the feed after the first line._

He raised an eyebrow. _Tried?_

_Unfortunately for them, their machines are easy to compromise,_ the Ghost spun mischievously. _It would do these people some good to accept some transparency._

Fang smiled at that. He was very curious to see what would happen next.

Hopefully, he wouldn’t walk out of here and be shot dead.

He supposed he would find out just how the Party treated their enemies, and he suspected that, after defying the consensus of the Party so thoroughly, he had made some enemies.

***

**OFFICE OF THE GENERAL SECRETARY | MOSCOW | SOVIET UNION**

Things were proceeding exactly as expected and on-schedule.

The Black Armory was in full swing and would establish a true black site on Europa in the near future, the Warmind Project was up and running, with the blessing of the Traveler (or at least as much as was possible), research was proceeding at a rapid pace, and the coordinated push into Africa was commencing. All things considered, it had been a very effective few weeks.

_All with the blind god none the wiser._

In fact, it was time for a little indulgent break. Though, for Clovis Bray, a break was focusing on something that was not ‘mission-critical’, something that had attracted his curiosity, though, in typical Bray fashion, always tied back to his work. Namely, the path the Traveler was taking on her little jaunt throughout the Solar System.

Mars, Europa, a few other moons he didn’t care about the names of. Data for the moons was enlightening, and, as had been mentioned to him, it was less about _terraforming_ and more about _habitability._ In the traditional sense, the moons were going to remain ‘uninhabitable’ – as in, they would remain floating rocks.

But even floating rocks had their uses. Hence the asteroid mining project. It promised an end to scarcity as the world knew it. The Americans and Chinese were stressing over how that was going to impact the markets, as it would effectively crash all precious metal markets, and Clovis was merely watching and enjoying the aftermath.

He had no desire for one particular economic system or another. Capitalism, Communism, it made little difference; each had their uses, and, if a new, better one appeared that swept away the old, he would happily move towards it. Economy was, after all, just a tool. Communism had helped the Soviet Union rise, and, when it failed, the Americans had bailed them out.

Of course, the Soviet Union and China could have turned their noses up at the offer, and refused to accept their failures, and they would have died. Fortunately, they had swallowed their pride, and, today, they were stronger than ever. It was a valuable lesson of history Clovis strove to emulate – when faced with a choice between adaptation or death, one must always choose adaptation.

People became far too _attached_ to meaningless ideals and unimportant nuances. It became a part of their identities that blinded them to the shortcomings of the ideology or belief they espoused. Religion, ideology, economics, people had an obsession with defending what they were most familiar, comfortable with, or ideologically inspired by, without considering anything else.

It was impossible for such people to accept alternate arguments. It was impossible for them to accept criticism. It was impossible for them to _change_. And one day, that would destroy them.

The Traveler had been a similar test – evolution or death. If the Triumvirate was to survive, it needed to evolve – and, thus far, it was proceeding exactly as planned. In the end, if one wished to maintain power, one needed to make the necessary changes, sacrifices, and moves to do so.

The world changed, and those who did not change with it would be left behind.

And, until the Traveler was pacified, he would have to ensure the Triumvirate continued to adapt as necessary. He would face resistance, he would face those who were stubborn, and he would make enemies, each of which he would defeat and cast away. They were unimportant, he had the people he needed.

Everyone else was a piece on the chess board, a dancer on a stage that needed to be danced upon.

The question was where the Traveler would go next – all indications were that she was moving to another moon – Titan. What she was going to do there, he didn’t know, but, unlike some of the other moons, this one had resources that could be exploited. Gases, mostly, but ones which had value, nonetheless.

How considerate of the Traveler to put an end to their scarcity.

It actually lined up quite well with her philosophy. The Traveler was an entity that wanted to make her followers want for nothing. It was to end the physical ailments she had doubtless seen before. Materials were effectively limitless in intelligent hands, and her path was clearing the way for Humanity to expand without limit.

He would not forget it. Maybe he’d make a statue for her when she was gone.

It would not do to not honor those who aided humanity in its ascension. A fountain of liquid gold, pouring from a cracked sphere broken by a human hand. Yes, that would be fitting.

Far in the future, of course. But he certainly wouldn’t forget what the Traveler had done. For better and worse, she had changed the world – and would eventually solidify the Triumvirate in the annals of galactic power.

A knock on the door interrupted his thoughts. He briefly glanced at the time, trying to remember if there was a meeting. Ah, no, this was probably to do with the African expansion, negotiations which were ending today, news coming in. Not that he was really expecting anything significant – it wasn’t as though there was any competition.

Bait of the most perfect kind, a trap laid most elegantly. The Grand Ayatollah’s terrorists had probably chafed in fury when they’d learned what he was doing. One of two things would happen – they would try and strike, sullying their image and showing revealing to the world the terrorists they were, or they would do nothing, and the assimilation of Africa would be assured.

Many pieces of middling value had been moved – or what they would consider _major_ value. The Economic Chairman, multiple Bray Incorporated Executives, people who had profiles which, if targeted, would be perceived as hurting the Triumvirate. But, just as Gopal was expendable, each and every one of them was also replaceable. He could always find an Economic Chairman, Bray Incorporated would always have no shortage of willing volunteers. A thousand such people in return for securing Triumvirate power forever?

A small, small price to pay.

And the bait would continue, he was ensuring it would. One day, even if it wasn’t today, they would take it. He only needed one time, maybe two, and all would be as it should be. He smiled at the thought that they were unknowingly contributing to their inevitable demise. A shame they would likely never understand.

The door opened. Zarin Shirazi strode in, the chief Foreign Ambassador of the USSR, and one of his most trusted subordinates – not quite enough to be brought into the full fold – not yet, anyway. He wanted to see how she played her part first. “[General Secretary,]” she greeted, with a salute.

The daughter of Japanese immigrants to the Soviet Union, she had a unique perspective on foreigners that a lifelong Soviet family would not, and it had prompted her interest in foreign affairs, especially beyond the Triumvirate. She was an effective diplomat, fairly young, and very ambitious.

A bit of an idealist, but everyone had their vices. She also dabbled in Bray Incorporated, her family having a background in electronics. He was fairly sure her father was part of BrayTech. Smart woman, a valuable asset to any organization, and he awaited her news. “[Chief Ambassador, come on in. News?]”

“[Yes, I have news,]” her expression was oddly controlled. She wasn’t the most expressive person, but usually she had a _little_ more energy. “[Both Libya and Algeria have agreed to our outlined economic agreement.]”

“[Wonderful!]” He didn’t fail to note the omission. “[Are the Moroccans being stubborn?]” They were always going to be the sticking point, they were a bit wealthier than the other countries due to their proximity to the Soviet Union, more prosperous, they conducted more trade. They perceived they had some leverage, in all likelihood.

Virulent anti-Soviet factions existed, which doubtless caused some problems, but, then again, what African nation _didn’t_ have some pent up resentment and jealousy towards the Triumvirate? She appraised him cautiously. “[Have you watched the news in the past couple hours, General Secretary?]”

He cocked his head. “[No, why?]”

She wordlessly handed him a document. Within it was a photograph.

His smile vanished.

He blinked.

He rubbed his eyes, drank from his cup of water, shuffled the paper and read it over again.

Still there.

_What the actual fuck was this?_

The picture was merely a snapshot of Moroccan Prime Minister Kadeen Achaari sitting in his office, and shaking hands with Grand Ayatollah Hamaza el-Hussein. “[This was distributed to media outlets approximately one hour ago,]” Zarin said grimly. “[I’ve been on the line with their foreign minister for the past half-hour. There was _no_ indication this was a possibility. Media is holding off on this for now, and waiting until you decide how to handle it.]”

Clovis felt the urge to tear that photograph in half. Instead, he carefully set it down, his voice cold and stoic. “[There was a press release that went along with the photo, I presume?]”

She winced. “[Yes.]”

“[Well,]” he leaned back, his voice artificially light. “[Don’t leave me in suspense.]”

She coughed. “[It was fairly lengthy, but the main thrust was along the lines of ‘The Triumvirate and Soviet Union have for decades attempted to assimilate us into their empire, and they bully, threaten, and remove those who stand in the way. Today we reject the imperialism of the Triumvirate, and begin working to establish an economy and state free of their continued influence.’ It was rather bombastic and defiant, especially for…Morocco.]”

“[Indeed it is,]” he said, more to himself.

_So, this is the game you want to play?_

It appeared someone in this ‘Resistance’ had a brain after all. But to take this direct of an approach? That was bold, even for the Grand Ayatollah. He knew that the Triumvirate was in a tough position, and could not act with the impunity it once had without consequence – and he’d also figured out that continued attacks would lessen the Traveler’s support for his terrorist cause.

The Grand Ayatollah was declaring war and calling his bluff on the world stage. It was a challenge to intervene, and he’d reversed the trap Clovis had so carefully laid. If the Triumvirate retaliated, it would sully him in the eyes of the Traveler, and cause greater oversight - if he did _nothing_, there would be an anti-Triumvirate coalition that would inevitably form.

The latter was unacceptable, so it would seem they’d made a profound act. How deluded.

How droll, how utterly cornered and unexpected and _dull _of them. This was their grand plan? A little waltz on his stage? Their master plan was to try to outplay him _at his own game?_

Worthy of attention, worthy of being called clever, even. Adapt or die, and they’d adapted to his new board in the face of death. Perhaps the dogs weren’t so starved after all, they could still use their minds. They could still rebel at the marionette strings.

Maybe they even thought they’d earned a reprieve, a chance at success.

No. No, they did not. It would not save them.

Not as things were.

Not against _him_.

Not against an ant monarch and his united court.

Unexpectedly, he smiled. Zarin eyed him carefully. A dangerous gleam had entered into the eye of the imposing General Secretary – a look she had only seen a few times in the years she’d known him, and when he had it, it generally meant he was going to do something dangerous and controversial.

The Grand Ayatollah was clever, but there was one _slight_ problem with a challenge like this.

He was the director of a series of terror cells.

And terrorism? Well, one could hardly do nothing when such a person made an open alliance, now could they?

This was a bluff on all sides – Clovis sincerely doubted that the majority of the Resistance was in support of this new plan, they were too violent and foolish to do so. If this little jaunt ended up working? More would be convinced. If it _failed_, and they saw violence as the only solution?

Well, it was important that this stunt not only failed, but that it was crushed.

Completely and utterly.

It was time to remind the world who had the power – and it wasn’t an Israeli puppet.

Remind them _carefully_, of course.

The Traveler would need to be handled, but he had a pitch that he believed would be sufficient.

“[Zarin, do tell Luka to meet me in my office immediately,]” Clovis ordered.

“[Yes sir! And what should I do about the media?]”

Clovis thought for a moment. “[We have a head of state meeting openly with a terrorist leader. Please ensure that fact is emphasized.]”

She nodded once, and quickly departed to fulfill the instructions. Clovis picked up the phone in his office. “[Put Commander Calumet on the line right now. We have a situation.]”

***

TO BE CONTINUED IN **CHAPTER XI | ANNEXATION**


	14. Chapter XI | Annexation

**ACT II | THE TYRANT’S HUNGER**

***

**THE WHITE HOUSE | WASHINGTON D.C. | CONFEDERATION OF AMERICAN STATES**

Clovis idly wondered what the terrorists had expected when they changed their tactics and pulled their little stunt. A harsh crackdown? An invasion? A swearing of vengeance against those who defied the Triumvirate?

Likely, for they were children who believed they were against other children. For them, the Triumvirate was a schoolyard bully. All strength, older, slightly more learned, yet, ultimately, still a child. And what did the bullied child do? They found strength in numbers, other children to combat the perceived bully.

In this instance, the parent was the Traveler. They would lure the bully into striking the weaker child, and then demand the parent intervene.

Predictable.

Of course, it was unsurprising. They almost certainly believed their options were limited. As the Triumvirate’s relationship with the Traveler deepened, they realized that they were on borrowed time, before they were surpassed. Their moment of appeal, of parental intervention, was rapidly closing, and that was what they feared.

A surge of anger, an insult, such a response was tempting. A lesser man would have succumbed to righteous anger. But he was not a child, nor was the Triumvirate.

One did not discredit the critics by playing into their hands. If Morocco wished to stand against the Triumvirate, if they wished to affiliate themselves with a terrorist state, then he could certainly work with that. Amusingly, they seemed to forget that they were seen as terrorists, and it did little to help their public image.

Publicly, they were beneath his notice. He had no need to make any public comment, nor did the Triumvirate. Let them stew, let the media rake the defiant country over the coals. It was with great amusement that he watched, as investigative journalists descended upon Morocco, working tirelessly to unearth the rampant corruption within the country.

How wonderful, to turn the virtuous journalists to a subject worth their insatiable curiosity.

Morocco…it was an irritant, and one he did not ignore. Yet, a cool head and a calm hand were necessary to properly turn this situation to his advantage. Should the hand be too heavy, there would be repercussions from the Traveler, should he be too lenient, there would be greater resistance and more would resist.

Thus, balance was necessary.

The people needed to be on his side.

The media needed to be on his side.

The Traveler needed to be on his side – or at least accept his justification.

The world was waiting with bated breath for the coming response – and it would come, without a doubt. However, when Morocco was justly punished for their stunt it would be on _his_ terms, and on _his_ time. The world bent to the Triumvirate. It did not bend to the whims of rogue states and terrorists.

President Quinn sat opposite him in the Oval Office, a state meeting which he had ensured would attract significant media attention. The media would be waiting with bated breath to learn what the purpose of this meeting was. Was it Morocco? Was a military response planned?

The world would need to be patient, but their thoughts were correct.

A unified plan of attack was necessary.

“The Intelligence Community came through,” Quinn said, sliding a file across the table to him. One with the standard classification markings for release to foreign sources. “Every business which has decided to openly or covertly invest has been determined and marked.”

A quick glance over the list caused him to raise his eyebrows. “That is a significant number - more than I expected, if I am being honest, Madam President.”

“As am I,” Quinn’s face was stony, as was her voice. “It is more concerning than I believed. Either this Resistance has managed to penetrate our vast business network, or there are more entities which are sympathetic to them than we assessed.”

“Is there an angle your people are leaning towards?”

“Split,” Quinn said, frowning as she leaned in her chair. “There’s some clear book cooking here, along with obfuscation through numerous shell companies, and there are a _few_ people who have British and Israeli connections, but not in any major capacity. There _are_ a notable number of Canadian-connected individuals, but…” she trailed off.

“But…”

“_But_ that doesn’t necessarily mean much,” Quinn said. “This is hardly atypical business behavior. You know what corporations are like, always looking to dodge taxes, increase profits, play off public opinion - they have their incentives, they’ll take them.” She briefly smirked. “Not like you would know that.”

His smile maintained. “I cannot abide by unfettered capitalism, Madam President. Give the corporations an inch, and they’ll run a meter. A happy medium with the guidance of the state is preferable.”

“The business community knows their place,” Quinn snorted. “And there is a reason the Soviet economy has struggled to grow.”

“Details,” Clovis waved a hand. “But I asked for the assessment. You say there is a divide within your agencies?”

“Yes, the CIA, NSA, and DIA believe that a number of businesses are compromised or manipulated by terrorists or those with terrorist sympathies,” Quinn began. “On the other hand, the FBI, NGA, and many of the J2 agencies believe that there are likely some sympathizers, but they are primarily driven by incentives offered by Morocco – namely, a true path into the African market, with little regulation, and, of course, competition with rivals.”

Clovis rubbed his forehead. “You have too many intelligence agencies.”

“We prefer a diverse selection of options. One-size-fits-all is hardly a universal model.”

“Both have their merits, I suppose,” Clovis said. “The all-important question – where do you stand?”

“Unacceptable, regardless,” Quinn shook her head. “The middle ground is most likely. Some sympathizers, likely, but, primarily, this is a business move – one which I believe is ultimately contingent on our response.”

“Meaning, if we act, they’ll get cold feet.”

“And if we don’t, they’ll see it as worth the risk. The African market has remained largely untapped because of us. If they feel that it can be exploited with minimal pushback…”

“Understandable,” he laced his fingers together. “We have an opportunity here, one I think we should use.”

“Meaning?”

“We keep quiet.”

“I’m not in favor of that.”

“And do what?” Clovis snorted. “Invade? That is what the point of this stunt was. To provoke us.”

“Nothing so crude,” Quinn dismissed. “However, this was a slap in our face. Association with terrorists is something we should _not_ tolerate. Sanctions at minimum, punitive action as a reserve option. If they harbor terrorists, they cannot get a foothold-“

“Calm down, Madam President,” Clovis lifted a patronizing hand. “Do not let this upset you overmuch.”

“You are not disturbed?”

“Oh, make no mistake, I am _quite_ furious. At the same time, every setback is an opportunity, and these terrorists have overplayed their hand – if we exercise a little patience.”

Quinn nodded sharply. “You have a plan, no doubt.”

“Of course I do,” Clovis said with a lazy smile. “We let the people do our job. We hardly want to play into the imperialist narrative the terrorists are so desperately wishing we fall for. No, we starve them for attention. We continue on as normal, and I’m sure we can find issues we need to deal with.”

His fingers drummed on the table. “However, our illustrious media will continue to cover this. I have no doubt that they will delight in the absolute _scandal_ of a country openly allying with a terrorist organization. A few leaks here and there, a drip-feed of damaging information, terrorist movements, and other things which are designed to elicit rage – I suspect we may begin facing pressure to _do something_.”

His voice took on a thoughtful tone. “And well, we are to be receptive to the will of the people, after all? Perhaps a second look is warranted, and lo and behold, we begin to tighten the noose. Diplomatic condemnation, sanctions, and, finally, a request to turn over the dangerous terrorists operating in their country. And, if they claim ignorance, why, we can _always_ provide assistance. If they comply – _excellent_. If they refuse?”

The rapping of his fingers stopped. “Then, if the people demand they be brought to justice, we cannot simply ignore them, can we? These are people, after all, who have suffered many terrorist attacks over the years. The Indians in particular have suffered greatly. Can we in good consciousness ignore their pleas?”

Quinn smiled. “I quite like it.”

“And while this media circus is taking place, we are not idle,” Clovis said. “Let the companies do their thing – but watch them. As this unfolds, I expect that we will find which companies are merely soulless and corrupt – and which ones are traitors. The KGB, of course, will stand by to assist.”

“I agree, but…” she paused. “Our Traveler friend, I’m curious if she’ll take issue with that.”

“I am more than confident that I can sway Valentin to the necessity of such a task, if he happens to ask,” Clovis said. “He is very much against these terrorists, as are most normal people. And we may gain his favor – merely watching such companies is certainly a justified action, whereas he may have it in his head we might outright invade.”

Clovis waved his hand. “We succeed in this little incident by letting them dig their own grave. Let us appear reactionary, receptive to the whims of the people, let their reputation be torn apart on the world stage and credibility dismissed. Let us turn the narrative from the imperialist conquerors to the terrorist freedom-fighters. We do not need to intervene. Not yet. All we need, Madam President, is patience.”

“I dislike this affront, but…” she sighed. “Your point is compelling. I presume Li is involved as well?”

“I’ve convinced him to hold off any drastic action right now, as well as the new Indian President,” Clovis said. “I’m scheduled to meet them over the next couple days. Li’s been distracted with domestic issues, apparently, Sov is making waves – and not in a good way.”

“The security legislation?” Quinn asked. “I’ve followed that. Brave man.”

“Brave or stupid, anyone who embarrasses the Communist Party like that is one of the two,” Clovis ran a hand through his hair. “Li needs to get Sov on board, otherwise he’s going to be an uncontrolled variable, and I’d prefer not to deal with that. He can’t rely simply on indoctrination and past loyalties. Ironically, he’s a larger issue than Valentin threatened to be.”

“Let us hope Li leashes him properly,” Quinn said. “Though I admit, it was satisfying to see the Communist Party taken down a notch.”

“Indeed, but instability is a price too high,”

“Yes, yes. Very well, I’ll keep you apprised of any developments in regards to the companies,” Quinn folded her hands. “I’m curious – do you think there is a chance we grab the Grand Ayatollah out of this?”

“Him? No, not yet,” Clovis said. “He’s smart enough to be far away in Israel. No, we will arrest Hussein when we bring Israel down – and depending on what _exactly_ we learn from this little incident, that day could come sooner than later.”

***

**BEIJING | CHINESE COMMUNIST EMPIRE**

Fang hadn’t really known what to expect after the session concluded. The security legislation had, in the end, failed. It had been a unanimous vote, of course, the Politburo wouldn’t give any indication that this outcome hadn’t been planned from the start. It had been an experience to see all of the state media cover it as if this had always been expected and the media _hadn’t_ spent days laying the groundwork for the legislation to pass.

A rather disturbing experience, and without a doubt a revelation - or a confirmation of much of what he’d suspected. But Fang was sure that few people actually believed what was being said on the television. Everyone had expected this to go in a certain direction, and he’d blown that spectacularly off course.

At least half of the Politburo probably hated him, or worse, and the other half probably weren’t speaking of him in favorable terms either.

It was as if some unspoken order had gone out after his appeal. Where, before, the media had practically swarmed him whenever they could, they actively stayed away from him now. He hadn’t sought them out, but there was a clear effort to make sure that he was _never_ the subject of attention.

Fang supposed there were worse fates than being ignored by the state media. For a few days, he had enjoyed the peace and quiet – and his family had made a deliberate point to not bring up the Politburo, politics (at least Chinese politics), or anything that would cause tension. Now, though, he realized that he didn’t really like that.

It was like…pretending. Pretending like everything was normal and nothing was happening. A subtle attempt to erase what people had seen. He’d checked. There was a conspicuous gap in the records of the session which had eliminated several hours of debate – his own speech included. When he’d inquired, they’d said it was unexpected ‘data corruption’. Another victim of the Chinese firewall.

Discussion on the decisions of the Politburo – usually something the Party liked to promote, as it gave the Party a chance to show the world that the people were behind them – was conspicuously locked down. No pro-Chinese rhetoric, even in the context of the speech, because to be pro-Chinese was to praise the legislation failing, which was not in the interests of the Party, but to do otherwise was to critique, and that was also problematic.

Much about this entire event was most certainly _problematic._

Although, right now, there was a crisis elsewhere. Some African country had openly invited a terrorist to support their state, which Fang found concerning, and was mildly surprised no one was doing anything about it. Not that he necessarily _wanted_ the Triumvirate to wantonly invade…but, at the same time, unless they had a nuke, letting a terrorist stronghold form wasn’t exactly the smartest idea.

Though, that wasn’t what was on his mind today.

The media shunning him had been a welcome development, at first, until he’d come to the conclusion that it was a way to make people forget about him. An attempt to silence his voice, a voice he felt was now important. He was one of the few – if only – who could speak without fear of (obvious) repercussion.

So if the media wouldn’t come to him, he’d go to them.

Specifically, small digital and physical newspaper organizations in Beijing. Not fully state controlled, but, of course, heavily biased in favor of the Communist Party (as all domestic media was). As much as the propaganda liked to hide it, China was very much a capitalist society (even more so than the Soviets), and, at the end of the day, businesses either made the numbers they needed to stay afloat, or they went out of business.

Kryptonite though he may be to the well-funded, well-connected media, when it came down to it, he was someone who attracted a lot of eyeballs and Internet traffic - and a lot of smaller media organizations needed that boost. There was a gap in the market – one which some were willing to take a risk to exploit.

Interest had definitely spiked when he’d offered a guarantee of safety. Not that he thought the Party would be stupid enough to actually go _after_ him or anyone he was connected to, but people were understandably paranoid and afraid of retaliation. Now, he was meeting in a fairly casual setting, a café with a half-dozen journalists from start-up or small media outlets.

Four men, two women, all of whom weren’t any older than he was. They all looked somewhat uneasy, but their discomfort had faded once they’d started talking. It was largely fluff things, initially, his childhood, his career, his time on Mars, all of which he was fine with.

Let them get into their comfort zone.

One of them had seemed rather enamored by the Ghost hovering at his shoulder. She’d asked if she could pet it – something Shadow hadn’t been quite sure how to take, but he’d floated to her and awkwardly bobbed as she patted his metal frame. That had gotten a chuckle out of him.

His Ghost hadn’t been quite as sure how to respond.

_I am unsure I should fulfill the duties of a pet, Fang._

_Look at her face though, you definitely made her day._

_I’ll do it this time. It’s like they forget I can talk._

_And whose fault is that?_

_Who prefers doing the talking?_

_Fine, you’ve got me there._

Internal dialogue aside, discussion was shifting to more serious subjects. Mostly to do with foreign policy; his speech before the Politburo claimed their focus, and he was given quite a lot of time to elaborate on everything he hadn’t been able to in his pre-planned address in detail.

He was careful to not _directly_ contradict the Party – no need to make even more enemies – but giving his own take on things? Nothing wrong with that, though some of the journalists occasionally glanced to the side or behind them, as if someone was going to pop out and arrest them.

“[It’s fine,]” he told them. “[No one is going to give you trouble. I’ll make sure of that.]”

They were visibly reassured by that.

It wasn’t just the journalists – there was a small crowd growing around their table. Shadow had flown around, insisting that the onlookers keep their distance, which they respected (likely not wanting to antagonize the alien machine). Fang wondered if they’d dissipate after watching for a few minutes, but a sizable crowd remained and listened to his long-form conversation.

Several hours passed, and food was still coming out. The café owner was clearly delighted he was still here, and Fang suspected that today was among the best days his business had seen. Still, though, he couldn’t stay forever, and he had given them enough material for a few good stories.

Some of the journalists were discussing among themselves, coordinating their various stories, how to split them up, and making sure that they weren’t all publishing the same thing. It was a nice display of solidarity, though, practically, Fang knew that exclusivity was all the rage in the media business. If each outlet published something unique, that would probably spike their traffic to a greater degree than if they ran the same stories at the same time.

He was now talking more casually with one of the journalists, a young man who’d spent some time in America, and had become enamored by the media there. When he returned, he decided to start his own American-esque outlet here. Of course, he had run into some..._issues_ and, thankfully, he’d had some smart parents, who gently refocused his dream.

Although, he was now speaking with Fang Sov, so maybe his dream wasn’t going to-

Every single train of thought was interrupted by a series of gunshots. Some plates shattered behind him, and, on instinct, Fang threw the kid and himself to the ground, as he frantically tried to see what was happening, as the crowd erupted into a screaming stampede away from the café.

One of the journalists screamed as she fell down, bleeding from the arm. Fang saw one of the gunmen emerge - someone with a face covering, all skin concealed, firing a handgun methodically in his direction. It wasn’t just one gunman either, there were a several more, one carrying a submachine gun.

Fang realized that none of the bystanders, the people observing, were being targeted. This was a hit. One against him and those he was with. Adrenaline coursed through him, yet, he found himself paralyzed. He should have brought a gun, he should have-

A shield of golden-white energy suddenly appeared around them in a dome, Fang looked up to see Shadow glowing with Light, his shell slightly segmented as it pulsed with power. The gunmen opened fire – and the bullets ricocheted off the shield or were vaporized upon impact. “[Move to protection!]” Shadow commanded. “[You are safe.]”

Fang helped prop the wounded woman up, pressing the wound in her arm, stopping the bleeding as best as he could as the table was turned over. Fang stood up, eyes furious as he saw the gunmen, who were now starting to realize that their hit was failing. One of them was yelling to the others, Fang could only hear a few words, but it sounded like they were frantically trying to figure out what to do.

“[When you get the opportunity,]” Fang said between the burst of bullets. “[Incapacitate them. Don’t kill them. I want to know who sent them.]”

“[Should I be nice?]”

“[No. Make sure they can talk, but make it hurt.]”

One ran, then another, a third gunman using his weapon to keep the crowd from swarming – difficult, though, since the crowd was already fleeing. _Where were the police!?_ The last of the gunmen was running now. When their backs were turned, the shield fell, and the core eye of Shadow turned red. A beam shot from the eye of the Ghost and swiped to the side.

The laser sliced through the legs of the gunman like butter, instantly cauterizing the stumps. The man screamed in pain. The Ghost blinked, materializing before the remaining ones, eye still glowing red. The laser fired and sliced a few more times, cutting the legs out from each gunman. Not content to leave them wriggling on the ground, Shadow sliced the arms off of each of them as well.

Half a minute later, it was quiet.

As the torsos flopped on the ground, the gunmen properly disarmed, the Ghost returned. “[Was that sufficient?]”

“[Uh…yeah, yeah.]” Fang looked down to the woman. “[Can you help her?]”

“[Yes. Excuse me, hold still,]” He stepped back to give the Ghost some space, and Shadow hovered just before the wounded arm. The color of the Ghost’s eye shifted to white, and a small stream of silvery, almost liquid light washed over her wounded arm, reminding Fang of fresh dew on a leaf, glistening under the morning sun. The woman’s face shifted from pain to confusion, and then calm, as Shadow floated back to Fang’s shoulder, and she gingerly pulled off the bandage. The bullet wound had completely disappeared.

Outside, the police had _finally_ showed up, armed, and were appraising the bodies with varying degrees of horror. Fang walked out, the Ghost at his shoulder. Their eyes widened as he approached. “[Sir, do you know what…]”

“[I do. They tried to kill me and the people I was speaking to.]”

His eyes darted to the Ghost. “[And your…machine protected you.]”

“[I’m not going to speak until I know who sent those men,]”

“[I…very well, sir, but we will need a statement, and those attacked alongside you.]”

“[Fine, but they stay with me.]”

“[We-]”

Fang’s voice left no room for debate. “[They. Stay. With. Me. Understand?]”

It looked like there would be some protest, but he glanced to Shadow – whose eye turned red – then back to Fang’s piercing stare, and seemed to back down. “[I…will speak with my superiors to arrange something. If you could wait for a few minutes, I will return.]”

“[Very well,]” Fang said as the officer walked off, and the others began arresting the limbless gunmen as best as they could, in between the moans and shouts of pain. A small crowd had returned, though were being kept at bay by a line of police. Fang looked back to the café, and the damage that had been inflicted. It was a miracle that no one had died – without Shadow, everyone would have.

Someone had tried to kill him. He wasn’t stupid enough to believe in that kind of coincidence. They weren’t just content with him, either – they went after those whom he was reaching out to. To intimidate him? Others who he spoke to? Dissuade people from interacting with him?

The reason did not matter.

He was angry, and he was going to get answers.

If this came from the top, if these people had connections to the powerful, there were going to be problems.

Many, many problems.

***

**THE KREMLIN | MOSCOW | SOVIET UNION**

_“I don’t know who it is,” _Fang said in a low voice. Valentin couldn’t recall a time where he’d _ever_ seen his friend this angry – though it was an anger he shared. The Ghosts that were facilitating the communication hovered nearby as both spoke. No moving to a safer place here, Fang clearly wanted to talk now.

“You suspect someone?” Valentin asked.

_“Someone, yes,”_ Fang muttered. _“I’m not an idiot. Not when I just torpedoed the Politburo’s security legislation. I made some enemies, and I’m sure one, or all, of them put a hit out on me.”_

“They had to know that wouldn’t work,” Valentin said, though his voice was uncertain. He wasn’t completely ignorant of the reputation Chinese politics held.

_“Yes, they would,”_ Fang clarified sharply. _“We didn’t talk about politics in China much, but there was a reason I wanted to get away. This kind of thing is not beyond consideration. How do you think the Party enforces loyalty in its highest ranks? Do you think everyone is a hivemind and universally agree on everything?”_

“Not openly,”

_“Exactly. I made an enemy, and I’m going to find out who it is,”_ Fang said. _“I don’t know if I can even trust the police here.”_

Valentin frowned, mind racing. “Do you need help?”

_“Are you offering? I’m tempted,”_ Fang said with a sigh. _“Sorry, I’m not in the best state of mind right now. I almost got people killed because I didn’t think something like this would happen. It isn’t going to stop. I don’t think it will. I’m worried about my family.”_

“Isn’t your family one of the most influential in the Empire? Would they think about threatening them?”

_“Right now? Yes,”_ Fang said. _“My family’s already not happy I’ve gotten involved like this, but they’ve at least accepted it or moved on. I don’t know what to do next, outside of figuring out who was behind this. I’m not a detective, Valentin, and I don’t trust the police.”_

Valentin thought, eyebrows furrowed. “Has the Party or Politburo made a statement?”

_“A brief one, typical Party nonchalance, ‘We are working to investigate this unacceptable attack on Fang Sov, blah, blah, and so on’,”_ Fang snorted. _“Granted, that’s not really a surprise. Anything which disrupts the routine is downplayed. Even got a brief call from the President which basically just asked if I was alright.”_

“Where are you now?” Valentin asked. “Your home?”

_“No, I’m at the station. I’m not leaving until I get something, and, like I said, I don’t trust the police,”_ he answered. _“If I leave, the likelihood that the gunmen ‘unexpectedly die’ skyrockets.”_

“A good thing we have our Ghosts.”

_“Yeah. He saved my life,”_ Valentin could imagine Fang turning his head. _“And speaking of that, you never mentioned you could do any of that.”_

_“To be fair, you did not ask.”_ The voice of the Ghost responded.

Valentin snorted. “I guess I’m lucky that I don’t need to worry about…attempted assassinations.”

_“Lucky you,”_ there was a pause. _“I find it interesting that Bray has been rather…well, good to you. You never really held a high opinion of him.”_

“No, I didn’t,” Valentin said. “And yeah…I didn’t expect it. He might be trying to placate me, but I don’t know. There are easier ways to do that, and I’m not in a…” he waved a hand. “_Symbolic_ position. I get involved in meetings, I get shown places they’re building and projects they’re doing, I get to look over any research or docs I want. It’s information overload at times, but I can’t really say Bray is trying to hide things from me.”

_“Wish the Politburo thought the same,”_ Fang muttered. _“They want me to support them, but, if I don’t? They want nothing to do with me. I’m a distraction to the people, or so they say. Now we have this…”_ Fang trailed off.

“What are you thinking?”

There were a few long seconds. _“Maybe something a bit drastic. Probably treasonous.”_

“You’re not worried someone is listening?”

_“Valentin, I should have died today, and thanks to Shadow, I didn’t. I hope someone is listening, because I’m maybe the one person here who has the power to make a change somewhere. What are they going to do? Kill me?”_

“If you’re right, someone has tried.”

_“Actually, I just thought of something,”_ Fang said suddenly. _“You want to help? Ask Clovis to guarantee my and my family’s safety from retaliation. If President Li will listen to anyone, it will be him. Liana is being treated well, last I talked to her, but she’s not close to Quinn like you are with Bray.”_

“Liana does know Holliday though,” Valentin reminded him. “She has some connections. Holliday could pressure Quinn to also address this.”

_“Right, right,”_ he could imagine Fang nodding. _“I’m also reaching out to the other Chinese Terra One personnel. Not a lot of us, but, if they went after me, they might have gone after others. None of them have as high a profile as I do.”_

“I’m surprised another more favorable one wasn’t elevated,” Valentin said.

_“Probably can thank the Traveler for that,”_ Fang said. _“Most of them are regular people, and don’t have many ties to the Party. I’m one of the exceptions.”_

“Alright, I’ll talk to Clovis about this,” Valentin said, rubbing his chin. “He’s…busy though. I don’t know if you’ve seen, but there’s a country that’s actually working with Hussein.”

_“I heard about that,”_ Fang said. _“Somewhat surprised they haven’t responded yet.”_

“From what Clovis has said, they’re going to try it diplomatically,” Valentin said with a shrug. “If that doesn’t work? Said he’s ‘keeping options open’.”

_“Hm, not exactly subtle with that implication,”_ Fang was silent for a moment. _“That’s harsh. But…”_

“Terrorists, I know. No one wants another Israel.”

_“They’d better act before someone ships them a nuke,”_ Fang said. _“I get that they’re probably wary with the Traveler watching, but this isn’t like some of our more dubious past actions. The guy is a literal terrorist mastermind. Especially after Gopal, it’s borderline unacceptable to just let it happen.”_

His sentiment was one Valentin was seeing more and more of. Pretty much _everyone_ – from Soviet, to American, to Chinese, and _especially_ Indian were united in the universal hatred of the terrorists, and Morocco, since their decision to ally with them. Sooner or later, they’d _have_ to do something.

What would that be? Well…as he was involved in quite a lot of the process, or at least keeping informed, no one could say that a chance hadn’t been given. Unlike certain previous instances, this was one time where the Triumvirate would be justified in its actions.

Vigil was…not as convinced, but there was a line that needed to be drawn, and even Vigil was not exactly thrilled with the situation. Valentin returned to the conversation, realizing Fang had said something. “Sorry, what was that?”

_“Got some MSS people here, interrogators probably. I’ve got to go,”_ Fang said. _“Take care.”_

“You too, good luck,” Valentin said, as the Ghosts disconnected, and he was alone in his room. Hopefully, Fang would be able to find out who had tried to kill him. For his part, he’d try to help as much as he could.

***

**RESISTANCE CHAMBERS | TEL AVIV | ISRAEL**

Hamaza had not fully known what would come after that fateful day when the Triumvirate’s authority had been irrevocably challenged, but he had admittedly not expected it to be quite like…_this_, this manifested feeling of unease and dread which now hung over all of them.

Far from the moment of optimism and hope they had expected, they had instead been filled with a sense of foreboding. Fear of a sort, for the first time in decades, the eyes of the world were seeing a defiant action like this taken, one not of the violence that had previously been perpetrated.

Yet, something Hamaza had failed to anticipate was how that past had come to haunt them.

There was no sympathy, no exterior support. Of course, it wasn’t as though they expected such, but the sheer vitriol they had seen hurled, not just from the propaganda mouthpieces of the Triumvirate, but from the ordinary people in the Triumvirate, had shaken their faith that this was something that was even viable.

The worst part was, it was not true disinformation. They _were_ killers, they _were_ terrorists. But they were a response to the injustices perpetrated by the Triumvirate. Unfortunately, a fact that would not be relayed, and the hardliners were already murmuring that this was a doomed plan, that the Triumvirate would act.

But the Triumvirate _wasn’t_ acting – at least not in the way they had expected.

What _had_ they expected? A public statement, universal condemnation, sanctions, shows of force, an invasion, if they were especially furious. _Something_. They had needed _something_. Yet, the Triumvirate had done…nothing. No sanctions, no public statement, not even an acknowledgement that it had happened.

That worried Hamaza.

He knew for a fact that there was some degree of coordination going on here. The Triumvirate would _never_ take this lying down. It struck him that the Triumvirate may have been publicly ignoring him, but they were certainly directing their media puppets to highlight every single action his people had taken, alongside the internal national corruption of Morocco.

Scandal after scandal by useful journalist tools, unearthing embezzlement, affairs, and controversial statements by government figures. To his frustration, it didn’t seem like there was direct government involvement, just the actions of a Triumvirate who was treating this with far more intelligence and restraint than they should have been.

There was a plan here. He was not naïve.

It was a scimitar hanging over their heads, and they were waiting for it to drop. It wasn’t supposed to happen like this.

Time was fast becoming a sword, and, if he took hold and cut with it, he felt with an eerie awareness it would be taken and used against him instead.

Even their successes in Morocco had the shadow of risk thrown off of them. There was economic investment, Amjah had Quds Force teams building up a more organized guerilla military, and things were _stable,_ despite the scandals. Normally, Hamaza would have been thrilled with the progress, but the corrosive rot of uncertainty robbed him of any comfort.

Prayer and meditation had not eased his mind, and Isaiah was similarly growing concerned with the lack of action on the Triumvirate. Now, he was seated opposite Arya, whose face belied concerning news.

“The game is revealed, it sounds like,” Arya said, slapping down a file. “MI6 is expecting the Triumvirate to open up negotiations with Morocco soon, citing ‘public pressure’.”

“Only three weeks late,” Hamaza muttered. “Opening up slowly, are they?”

“Seems like it, but they’re going to play hardball,” Arya said. “They are going to demand the full and complete disassociation from any ‘terrorist-linked figures’, expel known terrorist groups, and pledge to disavow you and the Resistance.”

Hamaza raised an eyebrow. “Demand?”

“Demand,” she glanced at the file. “If Morocco doesn’t back down, they slap sanctions on them, force companies to make a choice. It sounds like this will be coordinated. Now – that can sort of be gotten around, the problem is that it will expose businesses that operate cutouts through the UK and Canada. Ones we have influence in.”

“You think this is a trap?”

“Truthfully? I think we miscalculated here.” Arya pursed her lips. “We expected the Triumvirate to do something, and they _aren’t._ Worse, we have no idea what they _are_ doing, and I can’t help but think we’ve accidentally lost our advantage.”

“What are you suggesting?” Hamaza asked. “We also have our allies follow suit with the sanctions?”

“Morocco is one country, one which I don’t think we will continue to be able to influence,” Arya said. “The Sterling Cell is not going to compromise our own economic lifeline to make a grand statement against the Triumvirate. What I suggest is that we prepare to transition to a sole smuggling ring. I don’t like it, but the alternative is that the Triumvirate comes after our assets, and if we lose those…” she shook her head. “Things get really bad.”

Hamaza sighed. “Unfortunate. I don’t think Kadeen will bend over, so we’ll at least have some support. Though, I fear that this prolonged exercise bodes poorly for the Traveler’s support.”

“Hamaza, you keep portraying us as something we’re not to the Traveler,” Arya said with some exasperation. “Isaiah does it too, but he’s not as bad. You really thought the Triumvirate wasn’t going to pull out the footage when we did this? Face it, we’ve done some fucked up things. Were they justified? Yeah. Did they kill people? Also yeah. We’re not going to successfully make some moral argument to the Traveler that we are ‘better’. We’re going to have to force her hand.”

“And, truthfully, whose side will she fall on?” Hamaza asked.

“I don’t know, but I doubt it’s ours,” Arya said with a shrug. “We’re tainted, for better or worse. No one decent can support us, and the Traveler seems to prefer decency and a veneer of nobility to facing the truth of what the Triumvirate is. They’ll say pretty words, show her the bodies we’ve produced, and she’ll decide that – even if there are some things she dislikes about the Triumvirate, she can’t say that they’re _wrong_ to kill us. Simply put, they’re more useful to her. They have the manpower, the armies, the scientists, the land – compare that to what we offer. Remnants of lost wars.”

Hamaza’s lips pulled into a sad, almost defeated smile. “The ultimate cruelty of the Triumvirate. Their monstrosity has created an ugly creature born from the sins and corpses in its wake. Violence which has bred returned violence which justifies more violence against the noncompliant.”

“Nice philosophy, but I don’t regret any of it,” Arya said without emotions. “This was always the only way. Peace was a pathway to assimilation. Violence is ugly, but it works. On a mass scale, they still fear it. Israel has a nuke, and that halted the Indian march. We have more, though we still play the role of servile nation. Will it be enough to deter? I don’t know. Not anymore.”

Hamaza was silent for a few moments. “I suppose we will know we are lost if the Triumvirate invades Morocco without consequence. I do not think I can stop what will come if our effort for peace does not succeed.”

“You’d best prepare how to deal with that,” Arya said, her face set in a grim expression. “Because it is coming, and we should not rely on the Traveler to intervene.”

***

**OFFICE OF THE GENERAL SECRETARY | MOSCOW | SOVIET UNION**

The board was primed, the pieces were in place, and all that waited was to make the final moves.

The Pawn exposes the King, and the Queen moves, sweeping across the board. She takes the King. A Fool’s Mate. Readied and prepared. A trap sprung to its only possible conclusion.

Checkmate.

Another game done, another victory.

Unlike the blindside the terrorists had initiated, there had been no more surprises since their response – or lack thereof. It had, admittedly, been amusing to watch the growing outrage as the Triumvirate did nothing while the media propagated every sin and scandal throughout the world.

Frustrating, he had to admit, for he preferred being seen as a man of action.

Yet, he was here to play the long game, and the game required patience and subtlety.

Fortunately, the time for the jaws of the trap to snap shut was fast approaching - a trap that none were going to be able to stop, even if they suspected what was coming. Morocco continued to refuse to cooperate, and their side had been irrevocably chosen. Now, there was a path for a message to be sent.

The Triumvirate would not tolerate those who supported, enabled, and permitted terrorists. A Casus Belli which would later prove useful when Israel was dealt with. There _was_ the pesky issue of their nuclear weapon, but he suspected that, in a few months, there might be something to deal with that.

To deal with Israel, and any other traitors who were supporting the terrorists.

Additionally, according to Fox, there were a few important leads to follow up on. The rot of the terrorists ran much deeper than expected on first glance. That, though, was the next issue to deal with. Here and now, he was to deal with the situation at hand. All was primed, only a phone call was left.

Though, first, there was a meeting with a friend to smooth some things over.

“I’m glad that no one was seriously injured in the whole incident,” Clovis said as he poured out some tea for his guest opposite him. “I suspect your situation would be more untenable otherwise.”

“Undoubtedly,” Li answered. “He is becoming problematic.”

“A gift for understatement you have,” Clovis said dryly. “I heard that you have determined the culprit responsible?”

“Please, do you think _I_ would be idiotic enough to order a hit?” Li wrinkled his nose. “I am not suicidal, but yes – though your intervention was quite uncalled for. These investigations take time.”

“Mr. President, it was a personal request from Valentin _after_ he talked to Mr. Sov, who explicitly asked for outside pressure,” Clovis sighed. “And, as a man who is interested in justice, and listening to the plights of the common man, what choice do I have to not do everything in my power to ensure it is delivered?”

He decided to drop the passive-aggressive tone. “My job right now is to keep Valentin happy and on my side. If you can’t keep your troublemakers under control, then there is little I can do for that.”

“It is not as simple as you make it sound,” Li grumbled. “You do not understand the anger he has provoked, nor the norms he is breaking. Such cannot be tolerated, not openly. I would never suggest lethal action, but he should not be rewarded for his rebellion.”

Clovis resisted a sigh. That, in his view, was the ultimate failing of the Chinese system. When it worked, it worked quite spectacularly, but the problem was when the veil was torn, and it could be seen for the authoritarian system that it was. It was too rigid. _Brittle_. Mere propaganda and illusions of choice , the divisions hidden from public view. To the average Chinese citizen, seeing such a major split between a now-national hero and those they believed as infallible leaders would have been truly alien.

It made people _think_. Thinking, to the flailing despot, was frightening.

And Fang Sov was in the unique position of being resistant to the Chinese indoctrination, and now realizing he could do something about it. On his own? A problem to vanish. Unfortunately, thanks to the Ghosts, such troublemakers couldn’t be dispatched in an empty alleyway on a dark night.

No wonder the Chinese were panicking. Such basic, _obvious_ methods and mindsets could not be _applied_ to those with the blessing of the alien. Li was smart enough to realize this, but not willing to put the effort into trying to bring Sov onto his side, which he could understand, to a degree. Doing so would bring about change, and if there was something considered anathema in the Communist Empire, it was _change_.

Unfortunately for Li, he’d failed to bring the young elite into the fold, and now change was inevitable in some way. “You need to get Sov on your side,” he finally said. “Unless you want the Second Cultural Revolution. According to Valentin, Sov was quite _angry._ He does not trust you, your Politburo, the police, or much of the media.”

“As I mentioned, we have found the culprit responsible,” Li said, taking a mechanical sip of his tea. “One of the Politburo. Unsurprising, if problematic. Sov went against the Party, and that simply has consequences. I faced resistance because I killed the legislation after Sov sabotaged it, and further veiled threats because I did not retaliate afterwards.”

“Yes, yes, and what will you do?” Clovis waved a hand.

“A number of his subordinates are being prepared to be rounded up,” Li said. “They will be tried and executed. The good member in question will retire.”

Clovis wasn’t impressed. “Sov is not going to be placated.”

“He will, when they swear before a judge that they orchestrated it themselves.”

“Please, even I know that such actions aren’t undertaken by _subordinates_. Sov was raised as an elite. He knows the game, he just hates it.”

“And I suppose you have a better suggestion?”

“Of course I do. Arrest them all. Try them all. Kill them all,” his words were the clinical and controlled ones of a man discussing a diagnosis. “Burn the whole family for all I care. Purge the dynasty from your records. Show not only him, but the people, that such acts will not be tolerated. The stakes of what we are aiming for are high. If you are not willing to do what is necessary, then we might as well accept that the Triumvirate is done.”

The board would not be sabotaged. The dance would not be halted. A trip, a simple failiure during this waltz, and mankind’s fate was slavery.

Unacceptable.

“You have no idea of what you suggest,” Li’s eyebrows furrowed. “Such action is beyond the pale of what is acceptable. The Party would revolt. He is a highly established figure, and his family has ties to Chairman Mao himself. I cannot bring the Triumvirate into the future if I am deposed, can I?”

Utterly unacceptable.

Clovis smiled. “Do you wonder why I have been able to make such changes to the Soviet Union without revolt from my own government? Why I have permitted rhetoric and actions which would previously be unthinkable? With no restraint?” He leaned forward. “Because _I_ have the only one who matters on my side. I have the chosen man blessed with alien authority. I have been given the modern divine mandate, and, ultimately, _I_ have the authority to bring my vision of the Soviet Union to fruition. I fear no politics or assassins when I have every single card.”

A King ruled by his court was not a king. He was a peasant, an ingrate. A ruler unable to rule as a King rules is a puppet.

He leaned back. “You have a choice, Mr. President. Will you fall victim to the Second Cultural Revolution, or will you _lead_ it?”

Puppet?

Or King?

He’d never seen one of the elite blanche quite like Li did, but he resolved he should do it more often. “You have no idea what you are saying.” Li said incredulously.

“Oh, I very much do,” Clovis said in an artificially light tone. “My friend, have you _read_ Soviet history? I have, and I have also perused the KGB records that span decades. I have been mentored by those who orchestrated the Worker’s Revolutions, I have learned to recognize the indicators of unrest, or revolt, and, I say this without malice, Mr. President – China is becoming primed for a revolution. You have thus far failed to maintain the status quo, and you slide further and further towards change, no matter how much you try and fight it.”

The mistress of Change was as humorous and fickle as an ocean tide, it could not be defeated, only ridden. It could not be stemmed, only withstood, but, sooner or later, it would break through, drowning the ants in its wake.

Clovis disliked his ants drowning.

He rested an arm on the table. “The people are a forest that is dried and starved, Sov, and the other Chinese who have been chosen by the Traveler, they are the flint. Should they spark, the Communist Empire will be set ablaze. The KGB intentionally started such fires, but they can happen on their own just as easily. So, my question to you is this – what are you willing to do to preserve what you have? Is this family worth the cost of priming the coming fire?”

King, or peasant?

Li was silent for a few moments. Clovis spoke again. “I am ultimately providing this advice from one peer to another. I cannot make your decisions for you, but I am not blind to the consequences if the situation is not contained adequately. You cannot count on my support if it deteriorates, because the stakes are too high. I do not downplay your domestic situation, but merely state the cost of failure.”

A long minute passed. “I do not think you truly understand our culture or situation, General Secretary,” Li finally said. “Nonetheless, you are not wrong in certain notations. I will have to consider what to do very carefully. The stakes are, as you have noted, high, but there will be no Second Cultural Revolution. That cannot be permitted.”

King.

Good.

Acceptable.

Severe change would almost certainly be proof to the Traveler than the Triumvirate was shedding the skin of its past. However… “In the end, so long as we can maintain our control, it is acceptable. The projects are in development, Morocco is primed to fall, and we maintain the blessing of the Traveler. We should do our best to not lose it.”

A shame his court was not as perfect as it could be. But only a poor craftsman complains about his tools.

“On that, we are agreed.”

The meeting concluded shortly after. Clovis was largely confident his Chinese partner in crime would be able to contain the situation, despite his sloppy handling so far. Now, though, he had to turn his mind to other matters. He picked up the phone. _“[General Secretary?]”_ Commander Calumet asked.

Though she knew why he had called. This was a formality, after all. “[Commander, a good day to you. Begin executing the operation. It is time to bring this chapter to a conclusive end.]”

_“[With pleasure, General Secretary. It will be done.]”_

With a satisfied smile on his face, he ended the call, and picked up the red phone. The old, frankly, outdated machine, which was nonetheless symbolically significant. It had only one connection, one line, to one very important person. _“Clovis, I assume we’re ready to go?”_ President Quinn asked.

“That we are, Madam President. Calumet has been given the orders. The operation has started.”

_“I heard as much. I suppose I’ll see you in a few hours.”_

“If all goes according to plan. I shall see you soon.”

The phone was put down.

While this was not going to be a _typical _state visit, it was one which he had to ensure he was properly prepared for. Some might question the decision to go into a place infested with terrorists, but Clovis Bray was not someone who would cower in fear. No better way than to showcase the ineptitude and powerlessness of terrorists than to walk into their strongholds and watch them scatter like cockroaches.

He dialed another line to his secretary. “[Is my plane ready to go? Yes, the one to Morocco. Excellent, I will be down there shortly.]”

***

**MOROCCO**

When the Navy of the Confederation of American States entered Moroccan waters from the North Atlantic Ocean and the Soviet Fleet entered through the Mediterranean, the small boats comprising the Moroccan Navy requested hails and sent demands for identification. The demands were ignored, and the fleets moved forward.

Like wildfire, the news spread to the mainland that the Triumvirate was coming. Videos blew up on social media, depicting the encroaching ships, while Soviet fighters roared over the nation, launched from Spain, and American bombers rested on carriers, waiting for the orders to take off. The legions of Confederation Marines in landing crafts reminiscent of the invasion of Normandy sped towards the Moroccan shores in the early morning hours.

The Moroccan state found their networks compromised, and within half an hour, the Internet was under control of the Triumvirate – only permitted traffic was authorized, and with it came a simple message for the entire country.

_Stand down._

The consequences for refusal needed not be said.

Within one hour, every major port was secured. The Soviet forces invaded from the north, while the Americans came from the west. There was no organized defense, the Moroccan forces were insufficient to deter either faction. Most surrendered on the spot, those who did not were swiftly cut down.

Those who bore witness believed that the number of soldiers was unending. They poured from the Soviet borders, and were augmented by the thousands of American Marines invading the shores. Special Forces had been inserted into the capital, and, within hours, it was broadcast that the entire government had been secured, and martial law would be instituted until order could be restored.

It was speculated that the Triumvirate had tried to entice Prime Minister Achaari to personally make the army stand down, and give legitimacy to the takeover, but he had refused. Joined by his government in his own jail cells, he could only observe helplessly as the Triumvirate systematically locked down the country.

Clovis Bray and Jamie Quinn had landed shortly after the capital was secured, accompanied by the Red Guard and Secret Service, respectively, along with several hundred of the most elite soldiers from each respective superpower. A speech had been given, one which had been broadcast throughout the Triumvirate.

A speech where they had stated that they could not tolerate the spread of terrorism any longer, and that their failure to act would lead to hundreds more dead. They cited the unwillingness of the Prime Minister to work with them, and his refusal to divest from known terrorist entities.

With this, the Triumvirate justified their invasion.

They stated that they would leave – but only when the rot of insurgency and terrorism had been wholly and completely purged. A local leader would be elected, one who would be given control once the nation was secured. How long that would be? No one knew, but it was said that the more cooperation there was, the sooner martial law would be lifted.

Sharply-suited professionals of the CIA and the black-clothed KGB soon arrived in the cities of Morocco, and began their work to unravel the insurgency which had taken root. Dozens disappeared over the course of the investigations, and those who were released were never the same. Teams of Soviet and American forces isolated and hunted down pockets of violence, both from Moroccan military holdouts and national insurgents.

The fighting would continue for weeks, as the uprisings were put down.

The Prime Minister, and most of the Moroccan government, were extradited to Switzerland, where they were tried before the Triumvirate Court of Justice, found guilty of facilitating and supporting terrorism, and condemned to life in prison in the Hague – with no possibility of appeal.

The aftermath chilled the world as the shadow of the Triumvirate fell over the region. Clovis reveled in satisfaction as report after report came before his desk, detailing non-aggression and coordination pacts with other African nations, fearing retaliation. African militaries cracked down with reckless abandon, arresting and killing anyone they suspected was a terrorist, fearing an invasion of similar numbers.

Hamaza felt despair sweep over him, as avenues which had once shown promise dried up, and those who might have been allied severed all contact. The whispers began as the cells prepared for conflict, and the last remnants of hope for a peaceful solution failed. The hardliners could not be stopped, they would not accept another plan when this one had so utterly failed.

He hardened his heart, the struggle had not yet ended, more blood and steel awaited them.

Valentine observed the fall of Morocco in a mixture of horror and concern. He had merely expected the Triumvirate to assist in rooting out the terrorists, perhaps operate in the country. Not directly take it over, depose the leadership, and systematically purge the population of any suspected threat.

This was neither what he’d wanted, nor what he’d expected. This was going too far, even to end a terrorist threat.

As Isaiah was forced to depart the country in the wake of the invasion, he knew there was no going back. It did not matter what they tried, or what they did, the Triumvirate would never change, nor would it fall through any peaceful coercion or resolution.

The final straw had been broken. There would be no restraining what was to come. The Triumvirate would not tolerate dissent, be it through violent or peaceful means. There was no point in pretending it would be any different, and if the Traveler found the idea of the Resistance’s past violent actions a line too far…then so be it.

Sagira was silent as they fled, and, already, he was thinking of how best to strike back.

They may have been irrevocably doomed, but, if he was going to go down, it would be fighting the Triumvirate. There was no other path, and he could not justify to his men or peers anymore that another solution was viable, though he knew that this would simply feed into the Triumvirate’s justification.

But there was no other choice.

They would either wither away or fight.

And he?

He would fight.

And the Triumvirate would burn.

***

TO BE CONTINUED IN **CHAPTER XII | CONSPIRACY**


	15. Chapter XII | Conspiracy

**ACT II | THE TYRANT’S HUNGER**

***

**RABAT | MOROCCO | UNDER TRIUMVIRATE OCCUPATION**

The atmosphere of the city was disquieting.

If one wasn’t careful, they could miss that it had just been invaded from a distance. There were no signs of battle. No smoke. No artillery or gunfire. No shouting or screaming. Once they reached the city, however, the soldiers became apparent. Battalions hanging off or sitting in jeeps, marching in formation on the streets, and standing guard in front of buildings. There was no civilian movement - The Triumvirate had paused it temporarily as they assumed control over points of importance.

It was quiet now, unnaturally so.

The air was thick with an uncertain fear, an exhaled breath, released only now that the world could see what the Triumvirate had done. The majority of the soldiers here were American Marines, supplemented by the KGB, who were beginning their systematic work.

Valentin felt like the odd man out as he watched the aftermath, feeling conflicted and uncertain about what to do. Sure, there was no question that Morocco working with terrorists was unacceptable…but he hadn’t even been thinking that the consequences would be outright annexation.

Not _permanent_ annexation, anyway, and he’d seen no indication that the Triumvirate intended to return the country. It was only a question of who would govern it. Probably the Soviet Union, considering the proximity to Spain, though, considering the American investment, they might also lay claim to it. The murmurings he’d heard in the Kremlin were unintentionally clear as to what the intentions were – there wasn’t even a question of whether that was what the people of the country actually _wanted_.

Technically, he probably shouldn’t even be here.

Nevertheless, this was, to some degree, his fault. Regardless of intentions, he likely could have made sure that Clovis didn’t go through with his plan, and he hadn’t, being under the assumption that both men were on the same page as to what was and what was not acceptable. Clovis clearly had a much different interpretation than he did.

He was receiving some looks as he trudged down the street, though the Ghost hovering at his shoulder seemed to deter any questions. The soldiers tended to stop looking at him if he glared back, but for the most part they seemed to think he was someone else’s problem, or authorized to be here.

His face was a bit more common after all, he wouldn’t be surprised if they knew who he was, even if they were Americans.

The press had long since cleared out, outside of a few brave (or stupid) journalists, who were trying to not get the attention of the occupying soldiers. Probably independent journalists, not part of the American or Soviet mass media machines. The mainstream outlets knew not to antagonize the authorities, but there were still some who tried to go outside the norm – for whatever that was worth these days.

Of course, he suspected the real reason the Triumvirate forces had cleared out the media. The sun was going down, and the KGB had arrived. Probably CIA special agents were also in tow, but he’d read about how the KGB locked down cities and towns when there was a terrorist incident. To his knowledge, though, this had never been done on a city or scale like this.

He imagined the stillness of the air would be broken by intermittent gunfire and screams shortly. The creeping dread was persistent, he knew it was coming. No longer in the isolation of the Kremlin, and back in the world, every doubt and concern he’d had came to the forefront, enhanced by walking through a military occupation.

He wasn’t sure what to do.

No doubt Clovis would justify this. He could, and even Valentin wouldn’t contest that _something_ had to be done…but not like…_this_. It was too late to reverse it, and what was he going to do? Tell the soldiers to go home? No, the only thing he could really do was learn from this, and make sure it didn’t happen again.

Or, at least, not like this.

He’d have to talk to Fang. Fang would know a bit more what to do.

Probably.

_I don’t suppose you have any ideas?_

Vigil had been silent as he’d walked, seeming to know better than to intrude on Valentin’s thoughts. At the prompt, the Ghost visibly perked up – literally bobbing a bit higher as the telepathic link manifested. _Are you giving up?_

Valentin frowned at the Ghost. _What?_

_You think you can’t do anything. Why?_

Valentin motioned around with a flicked wrist. _Have you taken a look? Soldiers everywhere, the country captured, leaders imprisoned – guilty leaders, I would add._

_I’m not talking about the leaders – they can be judged. But the people – you can help them._

_Oh?_ Valentin snorted. _Do tell. I’m one person._

_With the ear of one of the most powerful men in the world. Your influence is greater than you know._ Vigil floated up before his face. _He will listen to you. He’s afraid of you._

Valentin rolled his eyes at that. As much as he appreciated the confidence of his Ghost, he was pretty convinced that Clovis feared little, let alone _him_. If there was only one thing he feared – it was the Traveler. If that. He’d not encountered a single situation where Clovis had been anything but composed and pragmatic.

_“Fear” is stretching it,_ he thought. _But…you’re not wrong. What do I even say, though? “Hey, I think you should let the people decide if they want to join us”?_

_Yes._

_You’re a bit mad._

_Am I?_

_He’s the General Secretary!_

_And?_

_It’s…_he sighed. _Ok, fine. But I’m not going to be making a bunch of unreasonable demands. I’m not happy, but I don’t want to start taking over. Like, I get why Clovis did this, but it’s…well…_

_Well…_

_It’s not right. Not really. There are better ways to do that. Get rid of the terrorists, respect the people. You can do both._

“Excuse me?”

A cough. Valentin abruptly paused, as his mental train of thought was broken, and turned to see a rather young, nervous man who was standing in the shadow of the street corner. He was Caucasian, short hair, wearing civilian clothing. There was a phone in his hand. A journalist? He made a motion with his hand near his mouth. “[You speak English?]” He asked in extremely accented and halting Russian.

“Yes, I speak English,” he said, cocking his head.

The man was visibly relieved. “Oh. Good. You’re Mr. Kozhukhov, aren’t you?” The man slightly mispronounced his last name, but he didn’t mind that overmuch.

“Valentin is fine, who exactly are you?”

“Ryan,” the man said.

“No last name?”

“Prefer to be safe, especially here.”

“Right,” Valentin looked around at the dimming light as the sun set. “What are you even doing here? Media? All of you were supposed to get out a long time ago.”

“Well, yes,” Ryan said nervously. “But…well, I want to know what’s actually going on here. After the Triumvirate media parade. You know they only show what they want people to see, right?”

Valentin crossed his arms. “You’re rather forward. And bold. You do know I’ve been directly involved with General Secretary Bray for months now?”

“Yes, but…” the man visibly swallowed. “But I’ve been following your…impact, I guess. You’re not like the leaders, not really. Call it a feeling, but I think you can be trusted, or at least that you don’t believe all of the propaganda the Triumvirate pushes on us.”

This conversation was interesting, and, by all rights, he should have walked away. He was probably one of those anti-Triumvirate media types, revolutionaries who had no actual plan beyond disliking the status quo. Not groups that Valentin especially wanted to associate with - but he _was_ reminded of Fang meeting with a bunch of similarly minded people. Maybe some good could come of this. “I appreciate the vote of confidence, but what do you want from me? I don’t think I want to be your government source.”

_Why not? _Vigil asked.

_Shut up and let me talk._

“No! No, nothing like that,” Ryan seemed a bit startled at the suggestion. “I just want to get your opinion on this. What’s happened, what the Triumvirate did. Without all of the talking points and obfuscation.”

“On the record.”

“Well, yes.”

Valentin considered it for a moment. “Fine. Let’s do this.”

“Re-Ok, let me set this up!” Ryan briefly fumbled with his phone, a smile on his face. Valentin supposed this was going to be his big break. Finally holding up his phone upright, he began – though his voice was noticeably subdued. “I’m in the Moroccan capital city of Rabat, which is currently under Triumvirate military occupation as a result of the Moroccan government having terrorist ties. I’m also here with Soviet hero of Terra One, Valentin Kozhukhov.”

“And Vigil,” Valentin added, motioning at his Ghost, who bobbed in the air and spun his fins.

“And Vigil,” Ryan repeated. “I’ll only take a minute – what is your reaction to the Triumvirate annexation of a sovereign nation?”

If that wasn’t a loaded question, Valentin didn’t know what was. Technically accurate, but still as loaded as the guns the soldiers were carrying. He waited a moment, formulating his thoughts. “Annexation was a drastic step, and one which did not need to be taken. The actions of the Moroccan government in colluding with known terrorists was unacceptable, but I know that we could have resolved the problem with methods less blunt than taking over a nation. We should work with the Moroccan people to root out the terrorists, not assume every single one is an enemy. We should immediately restore power to a legitimate Moroccan-“

“[Hey, stop right there!]” A voice shouted from behind him.

“Shit!” Ryan cursed, frantically trying to put down the phone.

He looked behind to see a duo of black-uniformed operatives marching up, a man and a woman, clearly KGB. “Let me handle them,” Valentin muttered to the now-terrified journalist.

The KGB operatives seemed to slow, and the eyes of the man narrowed when he saw the Ghost hovering. “[There is a curfew in effect, sir. You’re not supposed to be out here.]”

“[My name is-]“

“[I know who you are, Mr. Kozhukhov,]” the man continued. “[The curfew still applies – and we did not receive notice you would be in the area.]”

“[I didn’t inform the Kremlin.]”

“[That is outside our jurisdiction, but regardless, it’s time for you to leave. We are going to begin counter-insurgency operations shortly,]” he said.

“Hey! Get off me!” Ryan moved away as the female KGB operative approached, slapping down her hand.

“Stop it,” Valentin raised a hand. “He’s with me.”

“[Unlikely,]” the KGB man wasted no time calling his bluff. “[Press were supposed to leave hours ago, I don’t know what you were doing with this one, but it’s best not to interact with them. We expect some of them are terrorist sympathizers.]”

Valentin resisted the urge to roll his eyes. “[He’s definitely not a terrorist sympathizer.]”

The KGB woman had grabbed his arm, and easily overpowered him, pushing him to the ground and trying to wrestle the phone from his hand. Stupid as the kid was, Valentin wasn’t going to let him be punished for a relatively harmless crime. “[That’s enough,]” Valentin marched over and put a hand firmly on the woman’s shoulder – and immediately heard the click of a weapon behind him.

“[You may answer to the General Secretary, but that does not give you the right to interfere in a KGB operation,]” the man said, a pistol raised in his direction. “[Step away now. You do not have legal immunity.]”

“[You won’t shoot me.]”

Valentin wasn’t confident of that.

The KGB were not afraid of him. They weren’t afraid of _anyone_, and only answered to their own authorities. He doubted even Vigil being near would deter them, yet he still felt confident enough to say that. He wouldn’t walk away from this, not after everything else that had happened. He could do something.

Though, he needed to do something _fast_.

He heard the softest click of the trigger – and a bright beam of light burst from the head of the operative, who fell to the street with a thud, revealing a red-eyed Vigil behind him. The female KGB operative immediately jolted up, her own weapon in hand. Before Valentin could process what was happening, the beam of light shot from Vigil’s ‘eye’ and burned a hole through her skull, and she collapsed similarly, also dead.

Ryan scrambled away, and Valentin just looked, dumbstruck, at the two bodies Vigil had just created. Ryan seemed similarly shocked. “You killed them…” he said in awe. “KGB, and you just…killed them…”

Valentin just looked down numbly, the smell of cauterized flesh in the air, still not having completely processed what had happened. It had happened so fast...This had crossed a line, and he didn’t know what to do.

“[They were about to shoot you. I would prefer you didn’t die.]” Vigil said, floating to his side.

“[I…suppose. What are we going to do?]”

“[First, I will dispose of the bodies.]” Vigil floated to each one, and his shell segmented partially as light emanated from his core like strands of webbing to wrap around the bodies, and they vanished moments later, leaving no trace of anything. Even the blood was gone, probably teleported them somewhere far away, preferably the Sun.

While he was doing that, Valentin turned to Ryan. “Use the original quote for whatever you want,” he said. “But…I think we both don’t want this to get out.”

A mute nod. “And also,” Valentin said. “I think we should all get teleported out of here. It’s not safe – especially for someone like you.”

***

**QINCHENG IMPERIAL PRISON | BEIJING | CHINESE COMMUNIST EMPIRE**

A phone call, and it had been one that Fang hadn’t been expecting. A call from the President himself.

“[We found him.]”

An hour later and he was at the Empire’s maximum security prison. The guards had been expecting him, and had escorted him deep into the complex, through multiple checkpoints, with Shadow beside him the whole time. The Ghost had remained ever-vigilant since the attack, and was no longer content with hiding in the background.

Well, most of the time.

Truthfully, Fang wondered just _who_ had been found. A hit like this likely came from a powerful, wealthy family – one closely tied to the Party. One did not simply target even a distant member of a powerful family unless they were equally or more prominent. Whoever he was being brought to face would either be a clear subordinate or, less likely, an actual person of power.

If President Li was here, that was a cautiously optimistic sign, though he wouldn’t get too excited yet. The President _had_ made an effort to give him daily reports on the investigation, which seemed genuine enough – and Fang had kept in contact with those who were attacked. Thus far, none of them had been targeted again. Yet.

He wasn’t taking chances. He’d asked a few of the other Terra One returnees to watch out for them – something they were happy enough to do. President Li was waiting in front of a locked door, one that Fang knew would contain the mastermind – or the scapegoat – on the other side.

“[Mr. President,]” Fang did a short customary bow, no reason to ignore manners, even now.

“[Mr. Sov,]” Li gave a slight nod, his face unreadable. “[I suspect you want answers, and I will not delay. The one who orchestrated the attack on your life and the bystanders was Xia Ming.]”

Fang felt himself freeze, unsure if he’d heard correctly. He’d expected it would be a powerful family, a person in a position of power for sure. But one who sat upon the Politburo itself? A family as influential and powerful as the Mings? That was…incredible, terrifying, enlightening, it was many things…but he couldn’t say it was a scapegoat. No way would the head of the Ming family willingly take the fall for another.

“[As you might expect, what he permitted was unacceptable, and he has immediately been stripped of his position of chairman,]” Li continued. “[There is no defense for him. His confession has been willingly acquired, and all those who participated or were aware have been arrested. This kind of action will not happen again.]”

“[I see,]” Fang swallowed. “[What is he being charged with?]”

“[His charges are unimportant,]” there was an odd tone in Li’s voice, accompanied by a dismissive flick of his wrist. “[He is guilty. Orchestrated assassination against a family member of a Politburo member is a crime worthy of capital punishment. However, his fate I will leave to you.]”

Fang was taken aback. “[Me?]”

“[Yes.]”

“[But…I am no judge or arbiter?]” Fang said again.

“[You are the one who was targeted, and I want it to be made clear that such actions are, and forever will be, unacceptable,]” that tone again, and to Fang it sounded like irritation. For what, he couldn’t say. “[If you wish him to be charged under the courts, that is perfectly acceptable. But the decision will be yours.]”

Fang considered for a moment. “[I want to talk to him.]”

Li did not seem surprised, and motioned for the guards to open the door. “[You are under no time constraints, but he may not be willing to talk to you.]”

Fang mutely nodded, waiting until the massive doors opened, and entered. Xia Ming sat upright, opposite another thin pane of glass with a shelf under it. He was old, proud, his hair dyed black, as with all of the families of status, despite his clear age. Wrinkles and sagging flesh were not enough to hide the sharpened anger in his eyes as he beheld Fang enter.

He said nothing, though, merely stared, his uncuffed hands resting on his lap. The door closed behind him with a clang. Fang snapped his fingers. _I don’t want anyone listening._ On cue, Shadow buzzed up to about head height, and his back fins started spinning.

_It’s done._

“[He’s emanating white noise,]” Fang said, taking a seat opposite the man. “[No one is listening, if you cared about that.]”

Ming sniffed, though decided to speak. “[So, why are you here, Sov? To gloat? To kill me yourself?]”

“[No,]” Fang said calmly. “[I want to know why you did it.]”

“[You’re a clever boy, why don’t you tell me?]” Ming smiled without humor. “[That’s what you do now, isn’t it? Walk around and make decisions like you know everything?]”

“[I don’t claim that.]”

“[You have an odd way of expressing yourself then,]” Ming leaned forward. “[But you didn’t answer my question – why _do_ you think I did it?]”

“[I made enemies, clearly. I spoke out against the Security Legislation.]”

“[Of course,]” Ming snorted contemptuously. “[I would expect such a simple deduction. Cause and effect, because that is how you see the world, the mind of a simpleton. Disappointing from one who bears the Sov name.]”

Fang felt he was intentionally trying to provoke a reaction. He kept his voice level. “[Then enlighten me.]”

“[It is because you are a traitor,]” Ming said quietly, deliberately, eyes locked onto his own. “[To the Empire, to the Party, to the people, to the family. You have no understanding of what has been built in the past century or _why_ it has been maintained as such. You should have stayed in exile on the Moon, and lived in the West which you so clearly favor.]”

“[I understand the systems perfectly well,]” Fang replied. “[I’ve observed all of the systems. American. Soviet. Imperial. Each of them has their strengths and downsides. Is it a crime to improve those of my homeland? To speak out against actions which run in violation of that?]”

“[And what is it you want?]” Ming demanded. “[To replicate the Americans? With their constant bickering, inconsistent policy changes, and reactionary mode of operation? The Soviets and their nepotism and stagnant economy? There is a _reason_ we do not emulate the West, Sov. It is how we have reached where we are today.]”

“[And why is that?]”

“[Because we understand the fundamental truth, that not all men are equal,]” Ming stood, and seemed to adopt a firm, passionate voice. “[The minds of men are malleable, they are vulnerable. The average man holds no beliefs or virtues except those absorbed from outside influences. These influences can be harnessed to turn them against their own.]”

His voice turned disgusted. “[The Soviets exploited this masterfully. They conquered Europe without firing a shot, merely by turning countryman against countryman. Where they elevated ideology, the base instincts of man, above their people, their _community_. We have built a nation to resist this manipulation. One single, united people. Uncorrupted by the division and debauchery of the Soviets and West. One which strives to do everything for the state, driven not by fear of the KGB or the self-destructive mechanisms of capitalism, but by patriotism and a love of their nation and those who lead it.]”

Ming paused his pacing, and stared at Fang directly. “[You believe that only those chosen can achieve greatness in the Empire, Sov. That is false – only those who are exceptional can rise to earn the power and authority they are destined for. As the generations have passed, those who proved themselves exceptional produced heirs who continue their legacy. The people, Sov, do not want to choose their leaders – they want to be protected and cared for. We are parents for a nation, and the citizens are our children. Children we love and care for – but whom we must sometimes discipline and monitor, to prevent them from making the wrong decisions. You have no children, do you?]”

“[No,]”

“[You will understand this, yourself, one day,]” Ming nodded once. “[Freedom of the people is Western philosophy and propaganda – propaganda we have observed and thoroughly rejected. Your actions are those of a juvenile. You scold the parents, you rebel against the orderly household that is the Empire - this threatens _everything_. I am not alone, Sov, I am merely the only one who had the courage to _act_ before the children must be more harshly disciplined, lest they walk down a dangerous path.]”

“[You are talking about these people like children, but they are like you and me,]” Fang said. “[Walk in Beijing and you will see this. Why do they not deserve to lead, to have a say any more than you or I?]”

Ming’s face contorted. “[What does a grocery worker know about managing an economy? What does the electrician know about terrorism deterrence? What does the mother know about governance? Why would we place any degree of control into the hands of those who are not educated to, and do not know the first thing about leading a country?]”

“[You may be surprised,]” Fang said. “[Many times, the workers know the flaws, the issues that need to be fixed. They may not know the details – but they do know what needs to be corrected. They can conceptualize solutions, they can make rational decisions to put the right people in charge.]”

“[And you would risk a country on such a theory?]” Ming demanded.

“[Yes, I would.]”

“[Then you are as I said,]” Ming said softly. “[A traitor.]”

“[To you,]” Fang looked around. “[Yet, right now, only one of us is in a cell. If anyone is a traitor, it is you.]”

“[Politics, Sov,]” Ming’s lips curled up. “[You lost all friends when you defied the Party. I was unfortunate enough to be the one to be caught, but make no mistake, Sov – I will not be the last, and one of those will succeed where I and my people failed. If I were to offer some advice?]”

“[Please, I can hardly wait.]”

“[Leave,]” Ming said simply. “[I do not care the excuse, but leave the Empire. Live in the Confederation or among the Soviets, if you prefer them. Do not change the Empire, otherwise, it will not be you who is punished, but your family, friends, and associates. This is larger than a difference in politics, it is the order and social cohesion of a people and nation at stake – one which the patriots will not allow you to change.]”

“[Is that a threat?]”

“[In here?]” Ming bowed his head. “[No. I have lost. But I know my nation and my people, and I can say this as a promise. Enjoy your victory, Sov. I will die with my head high and the knowledge that I did what was right for the Empire.]”

Fang was silent after the declaration. Initially, he hadn’t been sure what he would do. His instinct was to let the courts render the punishment, but he knew that ultimately wouldn’t accomplish much more than making a martyr. All Ming had done was confirm to him that he had made a lot of enemies – and that this was not going to end anytime soon.

If there was to be a war – well, this may as well be the time for an opening shot. An idea had come to him.

“[President Li said that I am to decide your fate,]” Fang finally said.

“[I suspected as much. I warn you that it would be ill-advised to let me live.]”

“[Perhaps, because of your wealth and connections,]” Fang nodded. “[But, despite that risk, no, I will not kill you. You will be tried by the courts. They may find you worthy of death, but I do not. You want to die, to go to the grave as a martyr. I don’t especially wish to give you what you want – so this is what I will do.]”

“[Please, go on.]” Ming seemed amused. Fang suspected that would not last.

“[You and your family currently own one of the largest metalworking companies in the world,]” Fang began. “[It will be removed from the control of your family and given to those who work in it. I suspect they have some ideas on who would be best to take over – don’t worry, I’ll hold some talks.]”

Ming went still as stone and the amusement faded nearly instantly. “[You cannot. You…cannot just take that away! It does not just belong to me, it belongs to my family!]”

“[I can, and I will,]” Fang was unmoved. “[Your family has other businesses to manage, I assume. Less successful ones, and, if not, then, being as they are so superior to the common man, it should be no issue for such _superior_ people to rebuild from “nothing”, a term I use generously, as they are lifetimes richer than the average worker.]”

“[This is theft!]” Ming shouted, standing up. “[You are trying to destroy my legacy!]”

“[You tried to kill me, and many innocents,]” Fang said. “[Exactly why would I want to preserve your legacy? I am not done. Your vast wealth, all thirty-five billion yen, will be donated to your workers – and the little shop your men shot up – with a third of that going to those journalists you tried to kill. It might do China good to have some independent media.]” Fang smiled. “[And don’t worry – the entire nation will know that it was all because of _you_, and they will thank you for your generous donation. We are purportedly a Communist nation, it would do us some good to employ the redistribution of wealth.]”

Ming sank to the ground, his face bloodless. “[You…you are going to ruin me. My family. How could we ever overcome such dishonor? What you are doing…it will damage the Empire irreparably. You have no idea what the consequences will be. You take our business, our wealth…how are you better than us?]”

“[I somehow think that your rich family will manage just fine,]” Fang smiled coldly. “[I want you to understand this came as a result of your own actions. You destroyed your legacy by coming after me. If you wish to pass on a message to those you know who hate me – tell them that, if they make an enemy of me, I will destroy their families, just as I have destroyed yours.]”

On that note, Fang stood up and looked down upon the defeated man, who was now realizing that, not only was he denied his martyr’s death, he would live to see much of what he had worked to achieve be given away, both to those he had tried to kill, and those he had taken advantage of.

Fang didn’t especially care what happened to him now, live or die, it didn’t matter. The message would be sent clearly, and perhaps – perhaps, that would be the start of some lasting change. Ming might have had contempt for the average citizen, but Fang knew better.

Perhaps this was for the best – he was the only one who could really force change, and if he did not do it, then no one else would. Enemies be damned, if they came after him, they would be dealt with the same way.

Perhaps he was a bit overconfident, but he believed that the Traveler approved of what he was doing, and he also had a feeling that, if she was paying attention, she would be proud.

Valentin was going to _love_ this.

***

**OFFICE OF THE GENERAL SECRETARY | MOSCOW | SOVIET UNION**

A hand picked up the phone at his desk as Clovis fixed his eyes on the muted screens and fingers dialed the memorized number. A few rings and he was connected. Luka wasted no time. “_[Clovis, what is it?]”_

“[Yes, what?]” Clovis asked rhetorically. “[I’m currently watching the Valentin clip be played on American national news.]”

“[_You didn’t know that had happened?]”_

“[Of _course _I knew it happened, I want to make sure no one is playing it _here_.]”

Luka didn’t bother disguising the annoyance in his voice. _“[Of course not. Do you have that little faith in me?]”_

“[Considering we fucked up what should have been an easy win, I’m not taking chances,]” Clovis said. “[Good to hear it. I’ve got a meeting with Valentin shortly. I dislike playing damage control, but we have no choice.]”

_“[Do you think he’ll be amenable?]”_

“[Yes, it might take some talking, but I think I can prevent him from doing anything foolish – though please tell me _exactly_ how an uncleared journalist got into the city, if you don’t mind?]”

_“[Bad luck,]”_ Luka grunted. _“[Curfew was put in place, majority compliance. There’s always a few brave ones who stay behind for a scoop, and we usually root them out. Unfortunately, one of them found Valentin first. I wish you had told me he was going to be in the area instead of finding out on the ground.]”_

“[I didn’t _know_ he was going to be there,]” Clovis rubbed his forehead. “[The problems of a man who can use his Ghost to go anywhere. Little to be done about it now.]”

_“[Do you want me to chat to the CIA and MSS and kill the story?]”_

“[Too late now, it would just look suspicious. I doubt the Chinese let the story go to air, and Quinn won’t play ball now that it’s out in the open. You can forget about the Indians, too,]” Clovis sighed for a moment. “[It’ll burn out of the news cycle soon enough. Let it go for a day, that gives us time to prepare our talking points, and maybe announce a new breakthrough. BrayTech has a few civilian pieces ready to go. The plan was for holiday, but, considering the circumstances…]”

_“[Change the narrative,]”_ came the verbal nod. _“[I agree. However, if this is the worst that comes out of this, we still come out on top.]”_

“[Indeed,]” Clovis looked at the clock. “[Glad you’re on top of things. I’ll handle Valentin.]”

A grunt. _“[Good luck.]”_

A click and the line hung up, and Clovis set the phone back down, and leaned back in his chair.

And it had all been going so well.

The perfect narrative, expert buildup, the actors performing their parts exceptionally, all leading to the crescendo that signaled to the world the consequences of defiance, of associating with agents of subversion and terror. Not even Hollywood could have devised such a perfect finish, with the heroic Americans and Soviets marching in to end the corrupt government and terrorist threat.

Now, an unexpected plot twist and cliffhanger.

That would teach him to make assumptions about Valentin. To be fair, he had certainly not expected that Valentin would react so _harshly_. There was universal agreement that the terrorist alliance was unacceptable, and Clovis had assumed that he would be supportive of clearly justified action. He’d even allowed the escalation from sanctions to annexation, to soften any potential blowback from the morally-minded man.

Yet, even that wasn’t good enough. Clovis was, admittedly, confused as to his thought process here, something that he was hoping that Valentin could clarify. Still, Luka was right that this was, ultimately, a major win – even if Valentin had undermined it in the end. The message had been sent, and the people who _mattered_ weren’t going to pay attention to Valentin’s condemnation.

That wasn’t even mentioning the very interesting pieces of information that had been acquired in the interim. This was only just the beginning, and _next_ time he wouldn’t have to worry about an off-script national hero. He was fortunate Valentin had _only_ caused this kind of disruption, because, in comparison to how the Chinese were managing their own ‘national heroes’, it was positively immaculate.

He was almost disappointed that he had not been the one to manage the Sov, he was certainly more assertive than Valentin, and even Li’s simplistic attempts at managing him were backfiring in spectacular ways. Depending on how things went, it was not out of the question that he’d be dealing with a much different China in the next few years.

So long as such reformative spirit didn’t spread, that was an acceptable loss, but if Li could keep it together for a while yet, then all the better.

A knock at the door.

Showtime.

“[Come in.]”

Valentin walked in, and Clovis noted that there was a definite difference in his demeanor. He seemed a bit more composed and confident, and his eyes, which were usually filled with wariness or interest, were now marked with determination and resolve. If he didn’t know better, he’d say the man was showing signs of a spine.

_Let us dance, Valentin._

“[Valentin, welcome back,]” Clovis stood with a flawless smile. “[Your visit to Morocco appeared to be informative.]”

“[I’d describe it as _enlightening,_]” Valentin said back, his voice neutral. The Ghost at his side bobbed in the air, before settling in orbit around his head. “[What drove you to annex them?]”

Clovis cocked his head, and it seemed that, for this conversation, he might not have to act. Not only had Valentin piqued his curiosity, he’d legitimately confused him. “[Valentin, I’ve made sure to include you as we’ve monitored this situation. The terrorist associations, the suspected insurgent movements, the smuggling, I had thought-]”

“[I _know_ all that,]” Valentin interrupted, raising a hand – a _very_ bold move, interrupting the General Secretary. “[But outright _invasion_ and occupation? I read all the reports, it wasn’t everyone in charge – hell, the KGB outright said that a lot of Achaari’s cabinet was opposed to the decision. Why…couldn’t we have worked with them?]”

That was annoying; it appeared he _had_ been paying attention, and wasn’t just eating up the condensed highlights. Irritating, but he respected that. “[The Prime Minister had significant power, and, even if sometimes they privately oppose something a superior does, they won’t have the courage to act. Those who stand by and abet terrorists are…unreliable in the end. No one would have been comfortable with them in charge.]”

“[And how long are we going to be there?]” Valentin asked.

“[Until the terrorist threat is removed, of course,]” Clovis said. “[They were, unfortunately, able to establish working cells that will persist for a long time – unless we stop them now.]”

“[And the people?]”

“[The Moroccans?]”

“[Yes, do they just do nothing while we work?]”

“[No, no of course not,]” He reassured Valentin. “[The curfews are only temporary, and the KGB expects they won’t be necessary in a few days. They are for security, as the insurgents flee. People will be going back to their normal lives very shortly. You didn’t think we were just going to keep people under house arrest indefinitely, did you?]”

“[Of course not,]” Valentin shook his head, though his expression was still firm. “[But what about the government? Or is this a new Triumvirate state?]”

A brief glance at the Ghost, and Clovis knew he’d have to word this carefully. It was almost certainly the Ghost which was encouraging this kind of behavior, and a question like this? That was bait, and, fortunately Valentin was not subtle about where he was going. “[A new state?]” He asked rhetorically. “[Hardly. Only if they want it. And who would assume control? Us? The Americans? These talks don’t just happen on a whim, they are the result of tenuous negotiations over months - years, even, - negotiations which we _certainly_ didn’t have. No, we have no such imperial ambitions, our concern was the terrorist threat – one which has now been contained.]”

The firm expression briefly cracked, showing Valentin’s relief, before it hardened again. “[But you didn’t answer my question – what will be done with it?]”

“[Obviously, that will be for the people to decide,]” Clovis said smoothly. “[Once the KGB and CIA have finished, the government will be returned to the Moroccans. We are already speaking with individuals to fulfill vacant government positions. How the Moroccans will choose their next leader, I cannot say. All we will do is give the power to the interim government.]”

“[That’s…good,]” Valentin nodded slightly. “[Probably the sooner the better.]”

“[Probably, but these are matters that cannot be rushed.]”

“[All the same…]”

“[Out of curiosity,]” Clovis switched the subject, noting that he’d _not_ addressed the fate of the soldiers in the nation. Clovis had no issue turning the government back over to the Moroccans, the only people left were malleable puppets who would be useful clients of the Union. He wondered if Valentin would ask that later. “[You seem surprised by this action. Truthfully, what would you have done? What Morocco did was not acceptable, and I fail to see how any step could be taken which did _not_ necessitate the removal of the government.]”

“[It was too…]” Valentin searched for words. “[Heavy-handed. You said yourself that not everyone was corrupt, and the military could have been on our side. I don’t know the answer, but in these kinds of situations, we should work with those who support us, and surgically remove those who don’t. Otherwise, all we are is conquerors, masquerading as peacekeepers.]”

Another fine blueprint that he’d have to work from. Useful enough, though someday he’d have to find a way to pinpoint a _few_ more details on Valentin’s outlook. For now, though, it was sufficient. “[That is a perfectly fair outlook. I ask because…well,]” he shook his head. “[If the data we have gathered is any indication, there are nations who are worryingly tied to these terrorist networks. I do not want to alarm, but action may need to be taken if they are confirmed. I do not want another misunderstanding like this to happen again, and you can be sure you will be involved in future operations of this kind.]”

He held out a hand, and after some hesitation, Valentin took it. “[I would appreciate that.]”

Clovis smiled, and he internally breathed a sigh of relief. “[Excellent.]”

Another crisis averted. For now.

***

**DEAD CELL OUTPOST THETA | JERUSALEM | ISRAEL**

For the past weeks, dozens of Dead Cell operatives had funneled in and out of a small, unobtrusive site within Jerusalem like clockwork, each one receiving their missions directly from their leader, Osiris. Few personally knew the man, but those who had even met him a few times noted he was more intense than usual.

There was a new fire about him, a cold fury that something had ignited. A ruthlessness that rumors had said had faded after his return, rumors which had been proven false when they saw the scope of his plans. The Dead Cell was no longer acting in isolation, but in concert with many other cells.

The enigmatic Osiris was no longer interested in the petty actions of suicide bombers targeting the masses. There was a war to be waged against the Triumvirate directly. Their infrastructure, their factories, and their soldiers. Their officers, their scientists, and their enablers would be identified, tracked, and dealt with.

Assignment after assignment had been given out. Dozens of potential recruits were reviewed,\ approved, and smuggled out in crates, trucks, or other uncomfortable places. The machine which had floated faithfully by his side could move people across entire continents instantly. It could insert agents into places previously unreachable.

How Osiris commanded it, they did not know, but for that they were grateful. The success of the Resistance with the assassination of Gopal, followed by the annexation of Morocco, had enraged the partisans, and they were eager to strike, for they, too saw the end looming on the horizon. Every day, it seemed like a new breakthrough had been made, a new discovery was announced, and a new piece of tech debuted.

It was only a matter of time until the technological gap was so wide, there would be no parity.

However, it would be a long time before they could succeed to that degree. The Triumvirate was on the defense. For now.

The man whose name was Osiris stood alone, the last of the agents now departed on their assignments. The faint breeze of air conditioning ran as the silence took over the room, and he ruminated on what was about to come. Perhaps he was playing into the hands of the Triumvirate - it was likely, even.

But what choice _was_ there?

Wait for the Triumvirate to reform? That wouldn’t happen.

Create alliances with unaligned states? Impossible.

Give up? Go into hiding and accept defeat? Never.

The only path was the one which he had instinctively known from the start. The Triumvirate could not be bartered, reasoned, or negotiated with. All it could achieve was destruction, and the only reasonable option was to try and tear it down. Would it work? That remained to be seen, but a long shot was better than no shot at all.

Maps lay on the table, many of them with scribblings denoting points of interest, patrol routes, guard outposts, power grids, and places of importance. New York, Moscow, Beijing, Tehran, Canberra, Major and minor cities all across the world, held from the Americas to East Asia.

Go big or go home.

This was not how he would have wanted to wage war. It was preferable to be more incremental, slower. Infiltrate, learn, assassinate, sabotage, repeat. At this point, though, they didn’t have the time. Wait too long, and the Triumvirate would have the technology to end them with little effort.

They had an army, and he only had a few good men.

And a helpful Ghost.

Oddly enough, Sagira had been rather helpful in planning the logistics of the operations. He wondered if something had changed, though it may just have been his decision to shift focus to operations which hurt the Triumvirate directly, instead of largely terror tactics. Those had their place, but terror was best used to precipitate fear and anger towards the government, and he believed the people were too far gone.

There would be no revolution. There would be no rising up. They were simply too content, too comfortable, too propagandized. Whatever the reason, they could not be counted on. What he needed to do, what they _all_ needed to do, was locate and extract the ones who had woken up. Even if only a fraction of those people existed, that would potentially be enough to sustain them.

The silence stretched. “[Is She going to do anything?]”

Sagira also waited a few seconds before answering. “[It is unlikely.]”

“[Surprising.]”

“[Is it?]”

Was it? He didn’t know, but it was the best that could be hoped for. Even still…if the Traveler was not directly assisting, She was indirectly assisting by feeding the Triumvirate science machines. And, of course, there were all of the Triumvirate members who still had their Ghosts.

He wondered how they would react when they learned of him, and the Ghost he had.

Maybe it would make them think. Or maybe they’d dismiss it as a hoax.

Sagira kept insisting that they were good people, reliable, and were willing to make the change necessary. Maybe, but he hadn’t seen it, and there wasn’t any time to waste in the vain hope that one of them would have a conscience. Platitudes wouldn’t cut it, and, while seeing the Soviet – Valentin was his name – denouncing the annexation was slightly gratifying, it didn’t mean anything.

The country was still a Triumvirate puppet, the message they’d sent was delivered, and the soldiers were still there as “supportive anti-terrorist elements”. Valentin might mean well, but his actions were little more than virtue signaling. That was not how the Triumvirate could be resisted, and it certainly could not be changed. It was a machine, one that ran on hard-coded programming, intricate and ordained. Such a machine could not be changed without tearing down the system.

Such machines could not be reformed, only destroyed.

The hands of the clock ticked to the close of another hour. Another hour until the final war for Earth began, one which would spell the doom or salvation of all. Yet, he was not afraid, curiously enough, or even in low spirits, despite everything that had happened. If anything, this was…normal.

It was good to no longer be pretending, giving the Triumvirate a chance he’d known it didn’t deserve, but it was more than that.

He felt that, even if the Traveler wasn’t intervening, there was some kind of plan at play. What it could be, he didn’t know, he only could accept what he was feeling, and hope that it was true.

Ah, here he was, now with faith in something. It wasn’t the gods of Hamaza and Ryan, but it was…something. And he felt like he could understand them a bit better, now, their hope and optimism when everything seemed aligned against them. Yet, as he knew, gods and deities were not to be relied on. They may observe at most, but in the end, what he did was all that mattered.

There would be no god to save them from the hell that threatened them.

For better or worse, the Resistance was the final bulwark against the shadow of the Triumvirate.

If nothing else, if he died, it would be in service of something greater.

He reached over and flipped the light switch out. Time to get some sleep.

***

**OFFICE OF THE GENERAL SECRETARY | MOSCOW | SOVIET UNION**

The last several days had been a near constant show of contrition, defiance, and controlled anger. The media was fawning over him as they breathlessly covered the attacks, which were now happening in abundance. Not a day had gone by recently without hearing about a bombing, murder, or skirmish _somewhere_, from the largest cities in America to raids on small towns in the Middle East.

Glorious.

Clovis could not have asked for a better performance from his unthinking pawns.

His gamble with Morocco had paid off. The little incident with Valentin had been a temporary embarrassment, but Morocco was now a proud and “fully independent” client state of the Triumvirate, with a completely friendly government. Agreements for trade, military bases, and training had been inked and signed – all with Valentin’s tacit oversight and approval.

Truthfully, Clovis felt that the whole incident still had made the man suspicious, but he’d successfully maneuvered around it, and, for now, Valentin was a contained issue. Perhaps that would change, but he would deal with it when it arose. One thing he secretly delighted in was seeing the reaction from the Ghost when he told Valentin about one attack or another, and Valentin’s subsequent righteous anger.

Yes, the little Ghost clearly bristled. It was subtle, but Clovis could tell it was uncomfortable. It was like a little secret game they played. Valentin didn’t know about the terrorist who also had a Ghost, and Clovis suspected that he hadn’t been told. He wondered how he’d react if he heard about the Traveler implicitly condoning the attacks that were happening.

A trump card, one to keep for a moment of true crisis.

Although, as he read through the reports, he couldn’t deny that there had been an operational shift in this ‘Resistance’. Pure terror attacks were effectively non-existent now – the traditional ones, at least. Most of the attacks now targeted infrastructure, power grids, water plants, dams, other physical locations of importance. The second major category was military targets, usually soldiers on patrol or guard. Finally, they had begun more obviously targeting government and law enforcement personnel, technically civilians, but objectively state-connected. Usually they were precise, very targeted, but some attacks did have collateral damage.

A restriction enforced by the Traveler, or an evolution of tactics?

Not that it mattered, it played out exactly how he needed it to. Every law enforcement and intelligence agency was working overtime, and there wasn’t even a need to play the books and let some attacks _accidentally_ happen. The sheer number of attacks being detected and executed meant it was impossible to stop _all_ of them.

A lesser man would be afraid of the numbers, perhaps wondering if the terrorist threat was more widespread and sustained than anticipated. Clovis was not concerned, as he knew _exactly_ why these attacks were happening in such a volume. The terrorists had come to the conclusion that, if they did not act now, they would be defeated as the technological gap widened.

For them, this was literally do or die. They couldn’t hold back anymore, they had no choice.

And, so, they revealed themselves, their true strength and numbers. Mistakes would follow, connections would be made, and they would be systematically destroyed.

Of course, that didn’t stop controlling measures from being implemented. Luka was making sure the actually damaging ones were being stopped, while the less effective ones were given a lower priority. If a low-ranking bureaucrat perished in a targeted killing, that was unfortunate, but replaceable. A power grid was much more impactful and expensive, by comparison.

Ultimately, the terrorists would not leave a permanent mark. Every day, for each successful attack, many were foiled. They had yet to strike the foundation of power itself, and Clovis doubted they ever would. They would continue on their path and burn themselves out – or be put down.

And their actions were leading to some _very_ interesting connections.

He took out a piece of paper, and, with a pen in hand, began writing, a satisfied smile on his face. The investigations the Triumvirate had conducted into the various companies tangibly connected to the Resistance had borne significant fruit, enough that it might be enough to bring the rest of the world to heel.

Hundreds of shell companies, known and unknown shipments to known terrorist groups or fronts, near-confirmation of British and Israeli influence in the highest echelons of leadership. What they had learned would be enough to shake the business world to its core. It was time for a summit of sorts, one between the Triumvirate and the rest of the world, to decide the path Humanity would walk.

Taking down the British would be a triumph like no other, and it was a feeling he drew upon as he wrote a letter addressed to the Queen herself. The Royal Family retained a sizable amount of influence, and had been more willing to use their powers to limit the Soviet expansion. The Prime Minister was a mere figurehead, and he would not bother with pawns.

King and Queen on a board of disguised pieces.

One move to signal checkmate.

This letter would be the signal, the prelude to the trap.

With a final signature, he folded the letter up, sealed it, and set it on the edge of his desk, making a mental note to deposit it at the end of the day. President Quinn was sending a similar letter to Canada. Israel, they would not bother with, as he suspected that it would become irrelevant once the British capitulated. Isolated, abandoned, and forgotten by their allies, Israel was just a state with a nuclear weapon.

Certainly nothing to scoff at, but Clovis was prepared to call the bluff of the rogue state.

And, if it wasn’t a bluff?

Well, a city and a few million casualties would be a small price to pay for planetary unification – and an end to the Israeli terror state.

He leaned back, and, with a press of a few buttons from a remote, shut off the screens. That was enough foreign policy matters for the day, it was time to focus on more interesting developments – namely, those from the science departments, who, despite the threat of terrorism, were hard at work.

New discoveries, theories, and prototypes were being made on a daily basis. The trove of knowledge the Traveler provided was truly groundbreaking, and he would certainly be eternally thankful for it. There were civilian applications, of course, prosthetics were becoming perfected and energy would become near-free within the next year, which was to say nothing of the advances in medical technology and computers that the consumer market was eating up.

All side projects, when compared to the ones which truly mattered.

The Warmind Project was continuing, and preliminary simulations were showing promising results. Far from anything resembling an intelligence, but it was a start – and the components were starting to be manufactured, preparing the infrastructure for certain Warminds which would have…additional applications.

He hadn’t lied to Valentin when he’d been given the tour, nor was Ana aware either, but the intentions for some of the Warminds hadn’t been _completely_ true. Of course, the intention was simply for their true purposes to be a side effect that would come into being. He would _never_ have intended such a measure from the start.

He was only a man, after all.

The Deep Stone Crypt was beginning construction, and research regarding the Exo Project was also proceeding. The code name for the facility had caught on with surprising speed, to the point where it was likely everyone would just call it the Deep Stone Crypt instead of a more ‘official’ name. Clovis didn’t particularly care too much, so long as it produced what it needed to.

The Traveler also continued to hop around the system, seemingly oblivious (or intentionally silent) regarding events happening on Earth. He wasn’t foolish enough to believe she was blind – the Ghosts were her eyes and ears after all – but she’d clearly decided she was going to let whatever happened take its course.

Smart – though he was suspicious as to her true intentions.

She was by Venus now, and Clovis was _certainly_ interested to see what she’d do with it. Mars was a cold dead rock, but Venus was acid and poison. What could possibly be done to improve that? Then again…the entity commanded her brand of paracausality, and, with that, anything was possible.

And speaking of paracausality…

He pulled up a recently written paper on the subject. He scanned through it, not understanding the intricate science, though he could comprehend the abstract and its implications. Paper by paper, day by day, this Light was being understood more and more clearly, bringing the secrets of reality itself closer to their grasp. Today it was theory, soon it would be implementation.

It was only a matter of time.

The throne mankind had been seeking, that ever elusive majesty they bowed and knelt to, it was in sight. For now, they were ants, picking at the table scraps, gleefully taking the pittances reality offered. Once that throne of reality was theirs, though...

A self-satisfied smile broke out on his face.

Homo Deus had a nice ring to it, Clovis mused.

The plan proceeded.

***

**TRIUMVIRATE INTELLIGENCE COMMAND | TAMPA | CONFEDERATION OF AMERICAN STATES**

Hayden Fox didn’t like to consider himself a conspiracy theorist, even if, by the nature of his job, some conspiracy was expected. Even though he knew the term had its origins in obfuscating certain unscrupulous connections from the public, it was toxic enough for him to avoid it. At the same time, he was, by nature, somewhat paranoid and naturally skeptical.

One would make a poor intelligence director if they weren’t. Or a dead one.

Nonetheless, he considered himself a fairly reasonable person, if not necessarily _objective_. He didn’t rush to conclusions, he didn’t make decisions until reviewing the available evidence, and solicited other opinions to gain a more holistic outlook. All responsible actions, and, the vast majority of the time, it directed him towards a clearly optimal decision.

Of course, all of those were related to subjects which directly had to do with his job, whereas the thought that had rooted itself in his mind was more problematic.

It was a buildup of small things, things that he realized had been accumulating over months, and which had only occurred to him today, a dam which had burst open and inflicted upon him the curse of uncertainty. It was a series of subtle, nigh-unnoticeable things. Most notably? He wasn’t being talked to as much.

There had been a certain workflow he had become accustomed to, one which had rapidly ramped up when the Traveler had appeared, and had tapered back off to pre-Traveler levels more recently. Or so he had thought. He’d thought he was going crazy, but, looking back through his schedule, the numbers didn’t lie.

There were fewer scheduled meetings with the various agencies and agency heads had been speaking to him less and less. It still _happened_, but it was definitely far less frequent. Instead of every few days, it would be once a week. Several meetings were consolidated to ‘save time’. Others were canceled as things were being ‘reassessed’.

It had all happened over a course of months, and it had only been by chance that he’d thought about this at all – because, ironically, the amount of time he had to himself now was large enough that he’d actively thought _this isn’t right._ After that it was only a matter of realizing _why_ he felt this way.

Not that he was being _idle_, of course. There was always work to do, but there had been a certain contingency he’d prepared for, which considered a scenario where Triumvirate Intelligence was slowly cut out from the wider dialogue. The difference was that, in that scenario, it was because the agencies or nations weren’t speaking to each other.

The Triumvirate Intelligence Service was important because it facilitated those crucial inter-agency channels that allowed nations to work things out. They were the first line of dialogue, the diplomatic mediator to help solve disputes of intelligence. If countries, if agencies didn’t talk to each other, it spelled dark days ahead.

The problem? That wasn’t happening.

In fact, Fox was fairly convinced that the agencies were cooperating even _more_ than before. The issue was that the Triumvirate Intelligence Service was no longer a facilitator, it had become a middleman, one which certain nations seemed to want to cut out completely. Normally, that wouldn’t have been an issue, but that would require that he be informed of developments.

And he really was not.

It wasn’t enough to immediately raise suspicion, but he was only informed after the fact now. The whole situation with Morocco was one where the TIS hadn’t even been consulted, instead being treated as a joint CIA-KGB operation – ignoring that the TIS historically was responsible for facilitating joint operations like that.

He did not like being sidelined, and the implications of _why_ they were doing that were even more concerning. It seemed fairly straightforward, but he was wary of properly vocalizing it. If there was a culprit, it was probably Clovis Bray. He’d emerged as the ringleader of the Triumvirate, and he had likely designated Fox as a troublemaker.

For _what_ though? Fox didn’t know, and he genuinely couldn’t think of a real reason. He’d been doing this job much longer than Bray had been General Secretary, and it wasn’t as though he’d done anything but maintain a professional relationship. Of course…there was another reason he might have done this.

That reason was currently hovering by the window, peering out over the skyline.

The General Secretary clearly trusted the Traveler about as far as he could throw her, and liked her just as much. His dossier indicated that he was a very private person, and the Ghosts were the closest things to perfect spy machines. Bray likely assumed (incorrectly) that he was now compromised in some way because of his association with Watcher-7.

It wasn’t as though he’d tried hiding it. He’d reported the contact after the first encounter, and continued to note whenever it showed up. It was likely a combination of factors beyond just the Ghost, but Fox felt there was enough evidence to suggest that he – and by extension, the TIS – was being cut out from critical Triumvirate decisions.

Normally, there would be a process for addressing this, but he was unsure he should pursue it. Bray was a conniving and manipulative bastard, and he was unlikely to be cooperative, or worse, he was better at covering up whatever he was doing. It _was_ tempting to let things continue as they were.

And if the Triumvirate wanted to try cutting him out, fine. There were certain measures he could take. Legal ones. Well, technically. He imagined that the General Secretary assumed one of two things about him – that he wouldn’t notice this, or that he would notice and take action. What would he do if he pretended to be the former, but carry out the latter?

Unfortunate for Clovis that he had contingencies for situations like this.

He picked up his phone. There was a brief answer on the other end. “Yes. Send up Operative Bray.”

It would be risky employing her. But one of Clovis’s vulnerabilities was his family – so long as he trusted them. And unlike her father, Elsie was far more empathetic and genuine than he was – her willing recruitment had shown that. Watcher-7 floated over. “What are you planning?”

“To cover an intelligence gap.” Fox answered.

“Concerning?”

“Several things,” Fox said, lifting a beige file. “Mostly concerning the Warmind and Exo Projects. And what appears to be a concerted effort to slowly excise themselves from the TIS, but that doesn’t concern Bray. That is something I’ll address in other ways.”

Minutes passed, and, soon enough, Elise Bray had entered his office, seeming slightly nonplussed by the sudden invitation. “Operative Bray, take a seat,” he motioned opposite his desk.

“Of course, Director,” she said, taking a seat. “Is there a problem?”

“Yes, but not with you,” he said, pressing his fingertips together as he maintained eye contact. “I suspect you have heard rumors about how we’ve been behind the curve in terms of intelligence recently. I’ve had suspicions, and I’ve found enough evidence to confirm that the Triumvirate appears to be slowly cutting us out of the loop on important matters.”

She blinked. “That’s…they can do that?”

“Technically? No, there are certain requirements,” he paused for effect. “Practically? Yes, they absolutely can. It is subtle, but noticed, and that is unacceptable for the Triumvirate, and for us.” Here came the risk. “I do not know if you have guessed the culprit, but this decision can only come from four people. General Secretary Bray has taken a leadership position among the Triumvirate heads of state, and he is likely behind this decision.”

To her credit, Elsie didn’t react with outrage, but was understandably surprised. “Why? Are you absolutely sure of that?”

“Yes, I am.” Fox nodded. “As to why? I have my suspicions – mostly concerning our friendly Ghost.” He nodded to Watcher-7 – it wasn’t especially a secret that the Ghost had been hanging around the Intelligence Service, there had been some amusing, initially panicked, calls at first, but, over the weeks, people had accepted it. “I do not know his true reasons, but the fact is that, not only are intelligence gaps developing, but this is a breakdown in one of the longest-established institutions within the Triumvirate. We existed _before_ the Triumvirate officially was founded – it would reflect poorly on anyone if we were to be covertly excluded.”

“What do you want me to do?” She asked. “Talk to him? This is likely a mistake of some kind, I’m sure of it. Clovis loves the Triumvirate, he would never intentionally damage it.”

He agreed with her to some degree – but Clovis’s idea of the Triumvirate was likely different than her own. Clovis was playing at a different game – one he could not see right now. “No, that isn’t your place, and I would prefer not giving him more reasons to cut me out,” he answered. “But I am authorizing action to fill intelligence gaps, especially as they relate to the security of the Triumvirate. We are supposed to be the secretkeepers of the Triumvirate – and we are being cut out of crucial projects.”

He pushed over the file. “Have you heard of the Warmind and Exo Projects?”

“Only in passing,” Elsie said, taking the file and looking through it. “Major Triumvirate initiatives – BrayTech is involved in both of them. Ana is a project lead on the Warmind Project.”

“They are – and a number of other corporations linked to Triumvirate nations are involved as well,” Fox confirmed with a nod. “What necessitates intervention is that, while the documents we have access to _appear_ complete, there are major gaps. Chunks of operational infrastructure that are _crucial_ to achieve the functionality their objectives state are missing. I confirmed this with our technical experts. They’ve never seen projects like this be so compartmentalized, and, while we can attribute some of it to forgetfulness, due to the sheer number of groups, one could be forgiven for thinking this is covering up something more malicious.”

Elsie looked up warily. “You think that…they’re hiding something?”

“Potentially, I’m giving them the benefit of the doubt,” Fox said, drumming his fingers on the table. “Specifically, there is a software gap on MONROE, and a massive question mark on whatever SHIVA even _is_ for the Warmind Project. Many of the details on the supposed “Deep Stone Crypt” are also missing.”

“Ok,” she said. “If you’re giving this to me…”

“I believe you can be trusted to do the right thing,” he said bluntly. “For the Triumvirate. I know Clovis is your father, but even he is not above the law – or do you disagree?”

“No, of course not,” she quickly said. “I do think there’s more to this; he wouldn’t take this without reason.”

“I have no doubt he has reason, I have doubt that his reasons are acceptable. I hope I am wrong, but, if the Triumvirate will not cooperate, these measures will be taken.”

“And…I guess you want me to be covert?” She asked.

“You are a Bray, your sister is the Project Lead on the RASPUTIN Warmind, and you can enter BrayTech as you want,” Fox said. “If absolutely necessary, you have legal authority to take what you need. It will alert Bray, but I’d rather he be furious and we know what’s going on than remain in the dark.”

“Ok, I’ll do it, sir,” she said with a sharp nod. “I don’t know how long it will take…”

“Take what time is necessary, and directly inform me when you find something important,” he said. “This is not a simple assignment, but I trust you can complete it.”

“Without question, sir.”

“Good. Dismissed.”

Once the door behind her closed, he laced his fingers together. “If I could ask a favor, Ghost?”

“Of what?”

“Make sure that no one interrupts her mission. I wouldn’t put it past Bray to try something if he learns.”

“Of course, she will encounter no danger.”

With that out of the way, he reached into his cabinet and pulled out the larger question mark that had arisen after some digging. It was large enough that it made even the Exo Project look miniscule by comparison. Hundreds of different groups, from all Triumvirate nations, each focusing on an extremely small-scale project, which almost certainly coalesced into some kind of hierarchy.

What that hierarchy looked like, though, was an open question right now, and the Triumvirate was being coy about it.

The only clues?

It was directly connected to the Triumvirate Paracausal Studies.

And it was code-named DÀINSLEIF.

***

**CHAMBERS OF THE GRAND AYATOLLAH | TEL AVIV | ISRAEL**

His stomach growled as he peacefully counted his praises on the prayer beads. The hunger was an almost calming reminder of a time past, of when he’d hid in the dark, his young frame emaciated, his arms and legs skeletal.

Among the rats and vermin he’d crawled, in the trash and bins he’d scavenged, and in the dark, lightless nights he’d shiver and whimper, his tears long dried on his cheeks.

Then, he’d tried to steal money from an old, white-bearded man in fancy clothes. It was the greatest failure of his life. He’d needed money to buy food with, so it was only natural to steal.

There was only a single mistake he’d made. Hamaza had tried to pickpocket the Grand Ayatollah on his stroll. Well, he had not been Grand Ayatollah at the time, of course. He’d been merely an influential preacher under the Shah’s rule, though he would one day be the face of the Revolution. And he, a street urchin, had tried to steal money from the one who would briefly become the leader of their nation. A title, responsibility, and burden that he now carried..

It was not fate that he was where he was. It wasn't chance or coincidence.

Hamaza smiled involuntarily.

It was God’s will, and he’d always did his best to live up to it. Kindness should only be repaid with kindness, that is what he had been taught, what he deeply, innately believed. There should be no reward for good but good.

Should.

An ideal that had been difficult to live up to - impossible, if he was being honest. Even during the Revolution he had tried, even against the bloodlust of the crowds which called for justice, but truthfully demanded blood. Blood not undeserved, yet blood nonetheless. It had been a lesson, one he had carried with him.

The ideal was rarely the reality of this Earth.

Maybe it was the sheer pettiness of their struggles, of the faithful fighting the faithful. Maybe they had deserved it, being so willing to spill the blood of the faithful in dispute, instead of spilling words and wisdom, yet, there had been hope, for a time. He remembered it vividly, clearly. Then, just as quickly as they had achieved liberation, it had come crashing down.

The Revolution, intended to liberate the people from the Western puppet, had been the simple excuse the Triumvirate had been looking for to sic the Indians upon them. The short-lived Islamic Republic was hardly the only thing to have fallen in the wake of the Indian march.

Mecca. Lost, taken, plundered and savaged.

Medina. Burned and occupied, the mosques demolished and the universities destroyed.

Tehran. Gone beneath the marching feet of tyrants.

A remorseful chuckle slipped past his lips. A pittance of pity for the fate of the Arabian monarchs flickered in his heart. The Indians had made an example of their resistance. From executing the captive Ayatollahs to parading the captured House of Saud through New Delhi to a jeering crowd before a public execution. A rare moment of martyrdom from their ilk. The Indians had certainly known the reaction it would provoke. Perhaps that was the point, or perhaps they had not cared.

He had never pondered it overmuch, such thoughts seemed pointless, these days.

He’d hoped, hoped beyond hope, hoped for the first time in _years_, that there could be a sanctioned path to walk. A chance to return what was taken, without becoming that which they fought.

That chance was gone. As gone as the palaces and grand mosques.

Now they were back to where they had begun.

Hamaza idly mused that, technically, this was a return to the status quo which had dominated prior to everything changing. Yet, it felt like an inversion, a backslide into something worse. A failure. Perhaps because he had _seen_, he had _known_, that there could have been change. There could have been another path to victory over the Triumvirate. A slower, less violent path, but a viable one.

Those hopes were now dashed.

Then again, it wasn’t quite a return to the status quo – it was more aggressive. The Resistance was mobilized and motivated in a way he hadn’t seen in a very long time. A sense of grim reservation had settled upon all of them, himself included. Sources, operatives, and simple logic indicated that, if something didn’t happen in the next few years…

Well, there wouldn’t be a Resistance left at all.

It was sobering.

Right now, it was still calm as he sat outside his home in Tel Aviv, the balcony overlooking the bustling streets as they were winding down. Most everyone was gone, returned to their home countries or places of operation. Liberman was here somewhere, likely giving a brief to the Prime Minister. Jilla was leading the offensive in the Indian theatre. Arya was dealing with a crisis where the Triumvirate was penetrating the vast British business network, and Amjah was managing strikes in the greater Middle East.

Ryan was working overtime, finding recruits and hastening evacuations from the growing violence in India itself, where Isaiah was…well, back to his old missions. It had been difficult to see the brief sense of hope and optimism be snuffed out. Regardless, Hamaza was proud that he’d at least tried, and, hopefully, it would stay with him.

Isaiah had had a brief spark of faith in _something_, a spark that still smoldered within both of them.

Hope did not die, the dream still breathed and gasped in its struggles. They were not done.

Not yet. Not all hope was lost, despite how it seemed. They’d faced the odds time and time again, and they could do it yet more.

Fate may have been written on the heavenly tablets, but God did not give a soul more than it could take. He knew that, he knew as the blind knew darkness. So, come what may, they would resist until their last breaths.

For, if not them, who could? Who could stand against injustice and tyranny, if not the faithful and scorned?

No one, he knew.

The stories were frequent and frightening. Mass law enforcement recruitment. Patrols of armed soldiers in the streets and cities. The Triumvirate media puppets blasting propaganda, rumors of new algorithms designed to suppress dissent and tighten control. People suspected of harboring alternate or subversive views being abducted or brought in for questioning.

Not universal to one nation. All of them.

More troubling rumors circled. Pressure, through both diplomatic and economic means, was being leveraged against the British and Canadians. There were preparations for the Canadians to submit completely, which would be a blow to the British economy, and, subsequently, the Resistance. Would that happen?

He didn’t know. It was a worrying development nonetheless.

Pressure was gathering, and dark clouds were on the horizon. This would be the most difficult period of the Resistance since he had formally founded it. In those years, they’d come farther than anyone – the Triumvirate included – had likely thought possible. It was filled with men and women fighting for something far greater than themselves. Independence, freedom, God, virtues that the Triumvirate couldn’t truly pretend to hold claim to.

The jihad was one that would, one day, end, and he could only hope he lived to see it. What a glorious sight would it be, that blood-soaked dawn rising when they no longer had to live in fear.

When Mecca would be returned.

When Medina would be reconquered.

When the streets of Tehran would fill with the cheers and tears of a people liberated.

If he could not live to see that sight, then he would die so that others may.

There were still pockets of hope. Small ones, but they were there.

The Soviet Union’s greatest poster child had outright condemned the Moroccan Annexation, and had likely been responsible for preventing it from becoming a full client state. He was still taken by the propaganda, but there were cracks beginning to show. He wasn’t the only one. Other Soviets who’d been part of the Terra One mission were raising small, but notable issues with various actions.

Even in America and India, there were stories about people interceding in front of lynch mobs and zealous law enforcement. Local stories that had no media coverage, but verified by eyewitnesses of the Wheel, Star, and Sterling Cells. All of them the same, people with the Ghosts around them.

Most interesting? The Chinese Empire was one of the hardest to penetrate, but it was impossible to stop the rumors of a particularly _troublesome_ individual who had made enemies of the Communist Party – members of which had tried to kill him. Ironically, said individual belonged to one of the most entrenched Chinese families.

Fang Sov.

Difficult as it was to believe that such a person could persist in mainland China, of all places, there were too many verified reports to dismiss. Even as the Triumvirate tightened its grip, it seemed to be losing its control over the people who _could_ make a difference. Slowly but surely, he believed it was happening.

It was a matter of time – and taking initiative.

He had, of course, wondered to himself why an entity like the Traveler, who purportedly was a just and caring entity, would ignore what was happening on Earth, as if it could not see the injustice and evil the Triumvirate perpetuated. He was no longer certain that it was apathetic. Not completely. There was a plan in place here, perhaps it was a coincidence, but perhaps the Traveler did not act because it knew something.

Traveler. The Light. The Darkness. A thing of greatness bending the natural world like clay, breathing its power into the dead soil that it may spring to life. He was not fooled, the world was not so simple that it could be explained in ‘Light’ and ‘Darkness.’

It was preying on them, on their natural inclination for good and kindness, giving them a story with kernels of truth to guide them into its designs.

It could not be trusted. No creature of such power could be trusted, and it was not God, not their maker. He would give it no faith it did not deserve – but perhaps the alien had a greater role in the divine plan taking place. He would need to read and pray – and, in the present, prepare. Freedom would not come for those who did not act.

But that would be tomorrow. The sun was setting, and his body was weary. With some effort, the Grand Ayatollah stood, and exited the balcony, returning to his room. As he passed his TV, he flicked it on. As always, it opened to the news, an American station.

The headline made his heart skip a beat.

_EUPHRATES RIVER DRY - Territorial Dispute over Mines Ends in 99 Men Dead._

He felt his mouth go dry. With a hesitant push, he pushed the TV’s volume up.

The news anchor droned on and on as Hamaza listened with growing dread.

“_The state of the Euphrates river has long been a cause for concern in the Middle Eastern region. The dams have caused it to dry recently,_” the anchor shuffled his papers. “_The damage to local vegetation, farmlands and pastures has been heavy. However, the economic downturn has just had a fortunate upswing_.”

“_As of yesterday morning the dried river has revealed approximately seven billion dollars worth of minerals in initial prospecting._” Images of covered up dead bodies came. “_The initial outbreak of violence has resulted in ninety-nine casualties, with three private military companies directly involved. The situation was quickly resolved by newly appointed acting Chief of Middle Eastern Affairs, General Arjun Gala._”

The news anchor smiled. “_Now we go to General Arjun. Hello General, what can you tell us about your..._”

The man that came on screen made Hamaza’s heart stop, causing him to miss the last part of the sentence. His eyes locked onto the man’s features, seeing them and feeling a strange dread pooling in him.

One of his eyes was oversized, grape-like, and popping out. His other eye stood out, though, milky white and blind as it was. His smile was crooked, and his almost bald head was covered by a combover. Everything about the man was unpleasant.

Except his eye.

His singular deformed eye held a look he knew all too well. A look of exceptional intelligence, will, and desire.

“_To aid the citizenry in living their life unhindered by insurgents and terrorists,_” Arjun replied, speaking accented English, as was typical when addressing an international audience. “_Yesterday's incident was an exhibit in the great issues in governing this region. Many areas are thought of as…_”

Arjun paused.

Hamaza licked his dry lips, feeling his guts churn.

“_...free of laws, perhaps, is a good term. This understanding extends over much of the region._” Arjun continued, his smile displaying a missing tooth.

“_Yes, of course,_” The news anchor said, ever deferential, as all mainstream Triumvirate media were. “_If I may, what will be your primary focus during your tenure over the troubled region?_”

Arjun's head tilted slightly, his blind eye rolling left and right.”_It is quite simple - Bring security and safety to those who need and require it. No more, and no less._” Arjun’s eye seemed to be looking into Hamaza, the smile seeming to mock him. He knew that he was being watched by those he had clearly been sent to pacify.

“_You did inform us, before the show, that you had an announcement to make?_” The anchor prodded.

“_I most certainly did,_” Arjun’s ugly lips contorted into a smile, and his eye gleamed in delight. “_I’m happy to announce the formalization of my office, and of our newly created task force, the Special Anti-Terrorism Garrison. Formally known as STAG._”

The anchor blinked, and nodded along. “And, if I may, what can you reveal to our anxious viewers about it?”

The gleam in his eye sharpened; glistened. “_That we’ve fully begun operations in cooperation with Triumvirate intelligence agencies as of-_” He checked his watch. “_Ten minutes ago, and we will be continuing our heavy operations until the security and prosperity of the region is guaranteed. To the citizens of the Greater Indian Middle East, on behalf of the Republic of Indian Territories, we appreciate your full and complete cooperation._”

Hamaza knew then, fully and truly, that the final struggle against the Triumvirate had begun.

That night, he did not sleep.

***

TO BE CONTINUED IN **CHAPTER XIII | HUNGER**


	16. Chapter XIII | Hunger

**ACT II | THE TYRANT’S HUNGER**

***

**RESISTANCE OUTPOST RAM | SAUDI ARABIA | REPUBLIC OF INDIAN TERRITORIES**

Traveling was something that Hamaza preferred to limit, especially as he got older. Ignoring the assassination risks inherent in leaving the relative security of Israel – an irony which was not lost on him – he was old, and was quite aware of the risks of catching a disease or exhausting himself.

Unfortunately, with the threat facing the Middle East, all of them had to make sacrifices and take risks. He could only put his faith in God and Amjah’s soldiers to protect him. It was very unlikely the Indians knew where their outposts were, especially the ones in the deep Saudi deserts.

The Indians had primarily focused on the cities in their initial conquests. They weren’t interested in hunting in the mountains, deserts, and caves, which had allowed the Resistance to continue to thrive in the region. “Civilization” was what they wanted to control, and the little fiefdoms that held Indian puppets _were_ controlled, and allowed the hand of New Delhi to have a vast, if weak grip.

A grip which was expected to tighten with the appointment of General Arjun Gala and STAG. It was a name he had not heard in a very, very long time, and one he had hoped that he would never have to hear again. He had only known the rumors of the man’s butchery, as he had been infamous even prior to the Resistance’s founding.

Certain people were born with a _talent, _and with the skill, position, and intellect to make said talent even more profound. Arjun Gala was one such man. Hamaza’s desk had no shortage of reminders of _why _Arjun was taken off the field.

He was known as the _Butcher of Arabia_, for defeating a force three times his own and slaughtering the fleeing remnants. They called him the _Demon of the Sands _after he routed every last insurgent group that sprang up after the fall of the Saudi royals.

History labeled him the _Indian Mao _for his stellar career in ‘crowd control’ and ‘population management’ - fanciful doublespeak for his hobby of _breaking _his enemies_. _Everywhere the Indians sent Arjun, he displayed the same relentless, overpowering, and indiscriminate _cruelty_.

Hamaza knew, beyond a doubt, that Arjun enjoyed his reputation. There was a gleeful, enthusiastic demeanor to his hideous acts. An undercurrent of _joy_ pervaded his actions.

The Indians had armed, sanctioned, and granted authority to a man so gruesome that his own allies found him distasteful. From his quiet, insignificant corner, where his infamy could fade, they brought him back. The message could not be clearer.

They had not sent a peacekeeper.

They had not sent a simple killer.

They had sent a _problem solver._

Hamaza needed to know how the situation was on the ground. Reports alone gave little more than a sanitized, dispassionate view into reality. He needed to see the truth for himself. What better way than to meet one of the most veteran, skilled, and well-trained cell leaders in Arabia?

Afeed Dar El-Din had been there when the Indians first struck, and, of all cell leaders he knew personally, Afeed was the only one who could possibly contend with this adversary and give him a clear view of the ground situation.

The outpost was in a cave, and Hamaza wrinkled his nose at the dank, musty smell mixed with the odors of the many soldiers who inhabited it, all of whom were likely used to it to some degree. Unpleasant, but a mild inconvenience, compared to what his eyes saw. Bandages, the reek of sickness and the iron smell of blood. Men, rifles on their shoulders, eyes downcast, prayer beads wrapping their hands.

Their eyes lit up as they saw him. He still felt it was a marvel to see the Sunnis revere him so, even if he should be used to it by now. The soldiers he passed cleared the way for him, several with bandages caked in blood and viscera shot up, saluted him with their rifles, even as pain was clear on their eyes.

“[Ayatollah.]” The whispers grew.

“[Ayatollah.]” From a man missing a leg.

“[The Ayatollah!]” The voices grew, hopeful, stubborn, with hunger he couldn’t quite place.

He didn’t pass a single man, not one, that did not have a wound on him. Queasiness settled over him, as every gaze locked on him became a weight. He could hear prayers, louder now, more profoundly voiced out.

As if his presence changed _things. _Their lives, their hopes, placed on him.

Amjah was gently prodding him to the meeting room, which was little more than an isolated cave, and Hamaza somewhat reluctantly followed, to get to the business they had come for. Still, he would not come all this way just to ignore the needs of the people who were clinging for some, _any_ hope that could be offered, even from a Shia cleric.

Quite ironic that it took their faith itself being threatened to move beyond the sectarian violence of the past. Not forgotten, of course, but in the face of annihilation at the hands of the Triumvirate, theology was not something to kill each other over. Blessings in disguise, even in the darkest of times.

And times now were dark. Not since the fall of Iran had Hamaza felt the sense of impending doom and hopelessness threaten to become overwhelming. Not necessarily for himself, death had long ago lost its means to concern him, but many did not have his ironclad faith, but others who did not. Though he did fear the collapse of all he had cobbled together.

If the Resistance fell, it would truly be the end for a free Humanity.

Thankfully though, many chose to stand against the sword falling upon them, through whatever means were necessary. The curtain separating the command tent from the rest of the cave was pulled aside, the guard holding it open for him.

With a deferential head nod, the guard let the tent close behind him.

“[Grand Ayatollah, it is our first time meeting face to face]” he was greeted by a notably young man, who couldn’t have been many years older than Amjah himself. He wore the clothing of many of the soldiers here, cobbled-together desert gear, with knives, water flasks, and an assault rifle slung over the shoulder.

Desert weathered-skin bore small cuts on his cheek, on a face where resigned brown eyes stared out. A small beard grew, not especially well-maintained, but not wild either. It bore irregularities and jagged cuts that meant it was likely trimmed with scissors or a knife. He was definitely Arabic, though Hamaza couldn’t immediately tell which region he came from, likely Omani or Yemeni if forced to guess.

“[Welcome, I’d offer you something to eat and drink, but I had not had the chance]” the man said. “[I’ve been afraid someone else would visit, the men are relieved to see you. There are things you need to personally know. I am Shaheed Al-Najar, effectively in command of these brothers.]”

His grip was firm compared to the Grand Ayatollah’s withered one. “[Where is Afeed? I had been hoping to meet him]”

The young man raised a box, a large metal box. “[On that, I think you need to see what the Butcher has sent us]”

A feeling of dread grew, but he steeled himself and opened the box.

Hamaza’s heart plummeted.

Afeed’s blank eyes stared out. His head sheared from his body, with what could only be a chainsaw, his face trapped in a rictus of horror and pain. The young man silently closed the box. “[This one was directly addressed to you. Every last cell in the region has had several of these sent.]”

Hamaza took a breath, briefly closing his eyes before asking: “[How many?]”

“[Two thirds of our safe houses. Six hundred men, most of our emergency supply caches, most of our informants, nearly all regional headquarters.]” Shaheed tallied the butcher’s tally. “[Every figure of note who was in effective striking distance is now dead, head sent to us as a gift.]”

In the dim light of the tent lamp, Shaheed eyes glimmered. “[The Butcher of Arabia has returned. And he’s sent us a welcome gift.]” With a flick of his hand, he threw a letter on the table. “[As I said, addressed to you.]”

Hamza picked up the letter and read.

_To the Grand Ayatollah and His Dogs_

_I am profoundly touched and moved by the depths of your men’s loyalty. With no small amount of respect, I inform you that they have performed admirably. As admirably as any man could, when he is executed humanely and peacefully._

_Hereby, as one moved to the core by the bravery of your pet animals, I make you a promise. Soon you will not have to spend your nights worrying about any of your street mutts, I believe a time frame of four months is a humble one, for such a magnamious promise._

_To these ends, I also wish to inform you that I have sent you a gift. A gift I will repeat with every man who bears your banner. _

_Mayhaps you will make a collection of them?_

_With Utmost Sincerity,_

_\- General Arjun Gala, Special Anti-Terrorism Garrison (STAG)_

Hamaza’s hand set down the letter numbly. “[You seem unbothered.]” It was difficult not to let the accusation ring, for the words slipped out faster than he could hold them back.

“[I am familiar with the _Demon of the Sands_.]” Shaheed’s eyes seemed haunted. “[I’ve seen his smile, face to face, eye to eye, I remember his features. I remember his demeanor and intellect. For as long as I could bear a weapon, that memory had helped me fight. I am not unbothered by this man, but I no longer freeze upon his very name.]”

“[The pain is old, it does not hurt anymore, many of us here would have gone mad if it didn’t stop hurting,]” he continued with a neutral tone. “[Did your reports tell you, Ayatollah, what he did to our tribes and families, out in the sands?]”

“[I’ve heard the stories.]”

“[Arjun’s men were the ones writing those reports, and many of us were boys then. He captured our tribes. Sold the women and girls off to the Chinese black markets, or to Indian elites. I remember well how my mother and sisters screamed, back then, after that he had his soldiers cut off the tongues of our fathers, sent them to mines and sweatshops run by his men, they could tell no tales, nor end their lives.]”

“[For us? The sons?]” Shaheed smiled, a smile that bore suppressed hatred. “[He gave us weapons, had his men train us, and then used us for live fire exercise to bloody his men. There were hundreds of us, back then, there were a few dozen by the end of the first four months. He took a liking to me, and my friends. We survived and killed most of the unblooded men he sent against us, you see.]”

Hamaza felt his fists clench around the letter. “[You need not tell me of your pains, I understand it enough.]”

Heedless, Shaheed continued. “[He made us a deal. Among us, we had to pick half of us to wear suicide vests for an operation he needed done, easier to sneak in kids than grown men. He would kill us, if those we picked didn’t do the job. The rest of us, he’d let us go. He lied]”

“[When the suicide attack was done, he had us lined up and shot, then he threw us into the latrines. No evidence of ill deeds when there are pigs to eat the corpses. I survived by pretending to be dead.]”

From the ground, Shaheed picked up a folder. “[From start to finish, he had not wasted a single thing he was given. He sold the women for funds and connections, the captured men as manpower, us as training and war practice. No motion wasted. No resource wasted. Not a breath, wasted.]”

Shaheed looked at Hamaza. Through him, through his eyes and almost beyond him. “[This is the _Butcher of Arabia_, _the Demon of the Sands, _he has mastered his art. He lives and breathes violence, and now? He has all the support he needs to finish what he started.]”

The man’s voice was deliberately neutral as he described the atrocities, ones which Hamaza had heard the stories of, but so few had survived he hadn’t often encountered them in person. So Shaheed was a Bedouin then, or had been raised as such. Given where Arjun had been stationed, he was likely Yemeni then. “[And no one remains to hold him back.]”

“[Back then, he had to make do with what he had, few liked him, fewer enjoyed his existence]” Shaheed said, opening the folder. “[Now. Now he is our nightmare.]” He nodded to Amjah, as the Quds Force commander took the lead.

“[I’ve made some inquiries,]” Amjah began. “[Checked with the Israelis and British to see not just what he’s doing, but what happened once he was removed. The British had little, but the Israelis had a source.]”

Amjah’s tone was grim, as it was with everything to do with this subject. “[He was smart enough to stay out of politics. The Indians effectively retired him with honors - quietly - and he’s spent most of his time backing Hindu hardliners. When Gopal was killed...well, the hardliners are in power now. His political connections have paid off, and he’s back. This time there aren’t going to be any moderates to restrain him]”

“[With the death of Gopal, they needed a sign of power, of authority,]” Shaheed was silent for a few moments. “[What better symbol of their might, than their very own demon?]”

“[Do they think this will go unnoticed?]” Hamaza said. “[A monster such as him couldn’t possibly not raise attention.]”

“[If he were only a mere beast,]” a brief pause. “[Arjun Gala will find holes, he will find loopholes, and with every day that passes, he will choke the life out of us without a hint, nor moment, of trepidation. The rules have changed, but he’s long mastered this game.]”

Fingertips rested on a chipped wooden table. “[STAG is his own proof, a little challenge to his usual methods. He’s already adapted, and his men will die before speaking a word of his misdeeds. Religion, racism, and nationalism are powerful tools. Women and money will ensure the silence of any others.]”

There was an uncomfortable silence. “[Arjun was the architect of the attempted Arab holocaust,]” Shaheed finally continued. “[And he didn’t do it out of _hate, _no, only to finish us off and remove the _enemy._ Convenience, as if we were pests, insects to be killed.]”

Shaheed paused, then chuckled at that. “[No, I suppose it isn’t even that. He does it purely because he _likes _it_; likes _to do his job well. I have told you all of this, to make you realize that there will be no victory this time. No one on this side of the planet can out plan, out fight, or out smart him. All of us in Arabia are now dead men walking.]”

He opened his own folder, and showed them the first array of pictures. “[You’ve probably known the Triumvirate are making new weapons, but keeping them under wraps. Arabia is the testing grounds for them. The newest generation of machine guns, each round weighing a full sixty percent less, with twice the hitting power, electrochemical-thermal igniters, recoil absorbing barrels, more accurate, more advanced, and the prototypes already disseminated.]”

Next, a man in black colored armor. Sleek plates, and a helmet with optical lenses attached. An assault rifle of a model none of them could recognise held in their hands.

“[Full body armor, head to toe, breathable kevlar, our current weapons are nearly useless,]” Shaheed continued. “[Short of the optical lens, anything short of hollow points and high caliber rounds only bruises or cracks bones. Our small arms might as well be pellets. That rifle? Same technology, same ammunition, same recoil barrel. Another prototype, said to nearly never jam, and barely need maintenance.]”

Next, a humanoid robot, heavy, armored and armed head to toe. In its hand it carried the machine gun, on its shoulder a grenade launcher, and on it’s spare arm a ballistics shield. Besides it, a hover drone with an assault rifle attached.

“[Mechanical robotic shock troops, anything short of a heavy caliber sniper or an anti-tank weapon does little beyond push it around.]” Shaheed pointed. “[Only a few of those used, thankfully. Field testing. That drone? Linked to an experimental AI running the robot, flanks nigh perfectly. All prototypes, limited deployment, but it doesn’t matter. Lost sixty men to them alone.]”

Next, a series of men dashing across the street, a heavy suit of armor around them. Obvious mechanical elements exposed, and heavier rifles carried in their hands.

“[Mechanical infantry,]” he jerked his chin at another picture. Of a wall being caved in with a punch. “[A single squad - probably the only one using this equipment - took on an entire safe house, not a scratch, pin point accurate aim.]”

More, and more, pictures of mechanical rovers armed with machine guns. Helicopters dropping these robotics from the air, straight into a fortified building to wreak havoc. On and on, endlessly, repetitively, hammering the point of their inferiority until it became absurdity.

Amjah spoke first when Shaheed had finished. “[This isn’t sustainable. Liberman said that the Triumvirate was getting ready to deploy more advanced weaponry, but if it’s all of this caliber…]” he shook his head. “[We need a serious reassessment. These tools in the hands of the Butcher of Arabia will result in nothing less than a complete loss if we don’t have a plan.]”

Hamaza hated it, but he could see no other true alternative. Life was preferable to slaughter. “[We will need to summon the Resistance Council to determine a solution to this. We can’t completely abandon Arabia, Butcher or no. If our operations are pushed to the Levant, it will be over.]”

“[Then we need smaller cells, or consolidation in the north,]” Amjah rebutted. “[The Quds has supported the cells here for years, but it's been primarily material and training support. Not operational. We need to take control if this needs to be salvaged. Arjun is an expert against insurgency. We don’t have a choice.]”

“[Yes,]” Hamaza turned back to Shaheed. “[I’ve seen the condition you and your men are in. What you’ve shown me only confirms this. Your men need to retreat and heal, and there are other locations they can be sent to.]”

“[No.]”

There was a pause.

“[No?]” Hamaza asked.

“[No]” Shaheed repeated.

“[They think they have us]” Shaheed said, voice heated. “[That we’re _afraid of them, _that we’ll run and die like rats and dogs. That we’re vermin, our time ending!]” His fist hit the table, dust rose in the air. “[_No_. Not when they’ve shown the chink in the armor, the crack in their blades!]”

“[The Indians are _corrupt, _heart, body and mind_._]” Shaheed grinned. “[Their fanaticism hides incompetence, their power hides their fragility, and their _victory_ makes them indulgent. Arjun may be a master at killing and hunting us - but that is his only strength. Already they are indulging in their presumed _victory_. They’ve moved their factories here, they’ve left laboratories undefended, scientists left unguarded, they’ve unsecured a hundred and one civilian weaknesses.]”

With a sweep of his hand, Shaheed gestured all around him. “[Our deaths are sealed in stone, Ayatollah, we are all dead men walking. There is no escape from that_._]”

“[The absolute _last_ thing we need right now is martyrs,]” Amjah said sharply. “[I don’t care how brave you are, throwing your life away for the sake of it won’t bring you to Paradise. There is no glory and honor in submitting to defeat - not when the war is not yet lost. We need you, and your men alive.]”

“[Not for nothing, never that,]” Shaheed bared his teeth. “[Just because we are dead, does not mean our deaths can or will be for nothing. Our last efforts, our last breath will be in service of shattering the wheel and acting as the poison that sickens their regime. We will not die for _nothing_. But we will not abandon our homes, because if we do, we will never see them again.]”

“[What can be done, then?]” Hamaza asked, lifting a hand to forestall Armjah’s response.

“[Take their power, to sacrifice our lives for the rest of the resistance,]” Shaheed said. “[Of all the Triumvirate, none are as exposed as the Indians are, _right now._ I beg of you, Ayatollah, let us die with dignity. Do not give us a false hope of victory, not when _this, _is the only hope we can have, the only possible chance we could grasp. Allow us this final service, even if it is only a vain death.]”

“[_Specifics,]”_ Hamaza insisted. “[I do not accept vain deaths, Shaheed. I will not endorse your jihad for the sake of it.]”

“[Answer me one question,]” Amjah interjected. “[You say their factories and labs are vulnerable.]”

“[Yes,]” Shaheed said with a sharp nod. “[Arjun wants a localized war machine. I’d assume he wants Arabia as his fiefdom when its finished, and needs it to have a strong industrial and research base. We’ve been too disorganized and hurt to strike - now that we have our breaths, we can perhaps have a chance.]”

Amjah unexpectedly had a gleam in his eye. He looked to Hamaza. “[There may be something we can do. Something which could occupy Arjun.]”

Hamaza’s brow furrowed. “[What do you speak of?]”

“[The Egyptians,]” Amjah said. “[Any research and schematics recovered are useless to us. Israel doesn’t have a strong industrial base, nor could the UK do such without invasion. Egypt has one that can work - limited as it is.]”

Hamaza bristled. “[The Egyptians are not our allies or friends.]”

“[The enemy of my enemy is my friend,]” Amjah retorted. “[And Egypt is no friend of the Triumvirate. I imagine they’ve been spooked with Morocco - they refused to deal with us before. Times have changed. Frankly, Ayatollah, we don’t have a choice.]”

As far as their options went, Hamaza knew he was right. As unreliable as the Egyptians were...the end was being reached. Egypt, or at least the military, were cognizant of what was coming. If there was ever a time for new alliances, it would be now. With the apathy of the Traveler, and growing Triumvirate aggression, their hand was being forced.

Hamaza fixed his eyes on the young man. “[You have enough men to carry this out? To strike their labs and factories to extract their technology?]”

A nod. “[Enough. There are a few Houthi cells that are still functioning, and there are some disparate ones in southern Oman that can be contacted. We can get it done...with some help. Guns. Medicine. Officers if they can be spared, as Arjun has decimated our own.]”

Hamaza exchanged a glance with Amjah, who nodded. “[I’ll have the Quds establish a permanent presence. We can get you what you need and support what we can - so long as it is successful. If you’re right, then we’ll help you as long as we can. If you misjudged their apathy, we will reassess.]”

“[There will be no need,]” Shaheed said, his eyes gleaming in anticipation. “[We know what we must do. The coming end will be not be silence of defeat, it will be our laughter in defiance of it.]”

“[Good,]” Amjah nodded once. “[Then let’s start talking specifics.]”

***

**THE KREMLIN | MOSCOW | SOVIET UNION**

“[Barring some setbacks, this has proceeded quite well,]” Clovis said, leaning back in his chair as Luka finished his assessment. It was a private Soviet meeting, for once not involving any of the outside Triumvirate – or eavesdropping alien puppets. They would, of course, be brought into the loop eventually, but Clovis figured it was prudent to move some pieces into place with his own people, some knowing the full scope of the plan, others not.

Good to preempt what would come next.

“[Indeed, General Secretary,]” Luka conceded. “[The next steps will be crucial, however.]”

“[Of which I am certainly aware,]” Clovis waved a hand dismissively, though straightened in his seat. “[Let’s move to the plan over the next few months. Commander, you may begin.]”

“[Of course, General Secretary,]” Commander Calumet nodded, standing in her dress uniform and formally stiff as expected when addressing a superior. She clicked a remote and the screen across the table displayed several maps. “[Our priority is twofold – the pacification of the terrorist threat and the management of the dissident states. Chairman Ulyanin has briefed you on the steps the KGB are taking to counter these terrorists, but we are seeing far more overt military action from them.]”

Clovis smiled. “[They are going to war.]”

“[As much as these terrorists can,]” Calumet confirmed. “[Attacks are up by three hundred percent, targeting government, military, and industrial targets. Irregular bands of militias, asymmetrical tactics. There is more coordination and strategy from them than previously indicated.]”

“[No civilians?]” Zarin asked, the Chief Foreign Ambassador with a frown on her face.

“[Depends on what we define as ‘civilian’,]” Calumet grunted, making a face. “[They seem to be cutting back on pure terror attacks. Government officials are still valid targets, as is civilian infrastructure. Power grids, hospitals, farms, all fair game. Law enforcement is having difficulties keeping up in the rural areas, though is seeing success in urban centers thanks to KGB integration.]” Luka nodded in acknowledgement.

“[If I may add, we cannot overlook the digital element in the urban enforcement,]” Alton Bray said. “[Our anti-terrorist messaging has resonated with the public. Approximately sixty-two percent of terrorism charges in the past two weeks were thanks to initial civilian reporting. We should continue encouraging that.]”

“[Agreed,]” Calumet concurred. “[Unsurprisingly, the Middle East has been the most porous. Though attacks have been stifled since the deployment of Arjun Gala and the new Indian STAG. Right now there has been some nominal stability in southern Arabia, though it remains to be seen if it can be maintained.]”

Clovis shook his head at that. Arjun Gala, a truly despicable man, one who was going to make his life significantly more complicated in the coming week. Fiendishly intelligent, a killer without equal - and all of the wisdom and foresight of a sloth. It was almost sad how prejudice and baseless hatred could destroy the potential of a man who could have done great things.

Wasted on his obsession with Arabs. A pity. Arjun was nothing more than a weak man who could only feel strong when ruthlessly oppressing those smaller than him. It reflected poorly on the Indians that such a man had been restored, though it was perhaps unsurprising. Blood they wanted, and Arjun would draw it.

“[Is it confirmed the Indians are using next-generation military hardware in the field?]” Luka asked dryly, rhetorically. He knew the answer, but wanted it for the record.

“[Yes,]” Calumet nodded. “[Arjun wants the terrorists pacified within six months. He’s ordered acceleration of prototype deployments. Field testing has been his pitch. We requested he hold off, but the Indians have declined.]”

Clovis’ smile was thin. “[Wonderful. There is a non-zero chance the Resistance will acquire next-generation weapons in the future.]”

“[Correct, but it won’t change the outcome,]” Calumet shrugged. “[A few more casualties, but they don’t have the resources to match the Indians. Irritating as it is, it isn’t the issue. That will be once people realize Arjun is back. A potential political crisis will brew. The Indian’s won’t back down, but I doubt certain individuals will keep quiet either.]”

Unfortunately correct. That was a headache he was going to have to deal with at some point, and it was reaching the point where it might be worth cutting the Indians out altogether.

There was no way the Traveler was going to tolerate an Indian butcher, which meant that he was going to have to be dealt with in some manner. It would be so much easier if the Indians _weren’t_ involved in so many Triumvirate projects, and because they were, it made this more complicated. “[I’ll be speaking with Interim President Sardar about the appointment and...operations.]”

“[Yes,]” Zarin said. “[We should get in front of this and take a public stance. I can get the Americans on board no problem, the Chinese might wash their hands of it.]”

“[Begin doing that,]” Clovis ordered, before returning to Calumet. “[Do continue.]”

She did. “[The Chinese are keeping control well enough, though the majority of terrorist attacks are elsewhere. The CIA is working to keep South America under strict control, while the mainland has been largely untouched.]”

Interesting, that prompted more consideration. “[Deliberate or coincidental?]”

“[Both, if I had to assess,]” Luka interjected. “[The mainland States are the solid upper class of Americans. They are in the heart of the American influence, similar to how Russia is for us. They are less susceptible to terrorist messaging, and the Confederation has closer control over the propaganda networks. They absolutely retain their hold over the south, but there are far more opportunities for terrorists to grow networks beyond the grip of Washington. It may also be that they want to avoid antagonizing the Americans unnecessarily. The Resistance has always primarily been against the Chinese and Indians, thanks to the scattered diasporas of Japanese, Australians, and Arabs.]”

“[Noted,]” Clovis laced his fingers together. The assessment made sense. “[Continue, Commander.]”

“[We’ve tracked the mobilization of the rogue nations too, and there are changes,]” Calumet changed the screens to show satellite images of trucks, soldiers, and bases. “[Israel has raised the alert to the second-highest level, likely in response to the Indians moving soldiers near their border.]”

“[Likelihood of armed conflict?]”

“[Depends on how much the Indians want to push them,]” Calumet’s face tightened. “[The Indians are led by hardliners now, and they are screaming for war. There is potential for an immediate crisis within the next six months, especially since Gala is in charge.]”

“[Agreed,]” Clovis nodded.

“[As far as the British and Canadians mobilizing, there is evidence they are preparing, but considering the terror attacks, this is not surprising,]” Calumet continued, changing the images respectively. “[Luka has already briefed on their financial ties to the terrorists, so I will not repeat, suffice to say both are calculating that the situation will stabilize.]”

“[Easy to do when they have a guarantee they won’t be hurt,]” Clovis commented. “[Right, let’s move this forward. The rogue states must be neutered or captured. Zarin, if you would.]”

“[Yes, General Secretary,]” Zarin stood, clearing her throat. “[Obviously, we must approach this carefully. Despite the public disagreement expressed by Cosmonaut Valentin, we handled Morocco by the book, and public approval is overwhelmingly on your side, especially in light of the surge of terrorist attacks.]”

Indeed, it had been. It had been a gamble and a short-term crisis, but one which seemed like it was going to pay off. It was far easier to convince people of your militaristic actions when terrorists roamed and struck. The Other was not worth protecting; not for nebulous “values” or “principles”. Such were only held by a small number of people. Everyone else was more than willing to follow the narrative.

Everyone wanted to consider themselves the good guys, after all.

“[So the plan will be the same?]” Clovis asked. “[Media campaign and joint public statements, concluding with annexation?]”

“[Not exactly,]” Zarin said. “[We need to engage economically, diplomatically, and militarily. Britain and Israel are nuclear powers, and unfortunately cannot be treated like Morocco.]”

She was right about that. “[That will be difficult to do with Britain,]” Clovis mused. “[Their hatred of us runs deep.]”

“[But they are not fools,]” Zarin said. “[The Queen and Royal Family are pragmatic. They can see the writing on the wall, especially when we confront them with knowledge that their companies are being used to funnel money to Israel, who directly funds the terrorists.]”

“[They’ll deny it,]” Alton snorted.

“[In public, yes, in private, perhaps not,]” Zarin said. “[General Secretary, the Queen has agreed to meet in exactly two months following your correspondence. That will prove an excellent starting point. Prior to that, we should have our teams quietly cut off the most egregious companies. No media campaign – not until we know how the British want to play this.]”

Clovis nodded. “[Feasible. We’re not in a rush.]”

“[And the same with Israel,]” Zarin said. “[A meeting should be set up.]”

Clovis raised his eyebrow. “[I will not meet with a rogue terrorist state.]”

Zarin met his piercing gaze. “[Do we want to do this by the book or not?]”

“[The British might capitulate,]” Clovis said. “[In what world will Israel do the same? They would nuke Jerusalem itself before surrendering to us.]”

“[Optics, General Secretary,]” Alton shared an agreeing nod with Zarin. “[We want to do this right, both for the public and for our friend in the stars. Terror state or not, we have little to lose by making the attempt. I can ensure its framed as an ultimatum, and not a simple negotiation. There will effectively be no lie.]”

“[And Israel might make it simple,]” Zarin said. “[They might refuse outright.]”

Clovis didn’t like it, but he could begrudgingly see their perspective. He loathed giving legitimacy to the terror state, but it would at least give the illusion that he was seeking a diplomatic solution first. Valentin at least couldn’t complain about it, and that was certainly worth something. “[Fine. Arrange it if you wish.]”

“[Of course, General Secretary.]”

“[Speaking of our diplomatic efforts, how goes our African summit?]”

Zarin briefly consulted her tablet. “[On schedule. It’s difficult wrangling all of the nations into one place, but Morocco seems to have spooked them into complying, especially since we have the whole of the Triumvirate pressing for a summit.]”

“[Excellent,]” The proposed African summit was going to determine the future of the continent one way or another. An agreement which would solidify the relationship between it and the Triumvirate, forever tying it to them. It would be a slow process if successful, but like the Americans and South America, it would begin the inevitable march towards assimilation into the Triumvirate properly.

And if there was refusal? Well, they had best hope they were not sheltering terrorists. At best they could expect sanctions until their nations collapsed into warlord states – from which the Triumvirate would heroically enter and bring order to the unruly country. At least he suspected that no one would be foolish enough to be photographed with the Grand Ayatollah himself.

He still couldn’t believe that had happened. Oh well, their mistake.

“[I believe that wraps our foreign policy discussion,]” Clovis said, shifting in his seat again as he cleared his throat. There were other matters to discuss. “[We can shift to our production and research. Alton, give me the latest.]”

“[Of course,]” Alton said without a beat, shifting to give a long technological and sales update. “[BrayTech has continued development of…]”

The following discussion was long, detailed, and interesting to some degree, but Clovis knew that most of it was contingent on other, more important factors. So long as the rogue nations were in play, and the infernal alien had the power to bring it all down, the promised utopia remained a dream.

Yet one he was striving to every day, step by tiny step.

***

**KNESSET | TEL AVIV | ISRAEL**

The Israelis had made their demands clear. He was to come alone, no KGB, Red Guard, or military forces. He was to carry no weapons and submit himself to an inspection. He was to be escorted by Israeli soldiers and Mossad agents. He was permitted to have one media outlet accompany him if he so wished. He would be accompanied and watched every step of the way. Breaking any of these rules was grounds for arrest.

Bold and arrogant of them. He knew full well that they had written these, fully expecting him to turn them down. After all, who would willingly walk into such a hostile state with no protection or help? If there was ever a perfect metaphor for walking into the lion’s den, entering the State of Israel alone certainly qualified. Most would reject the Israeli conditions.

Clovis Bray, however, was not most people.

In truth, he was mildly surprised the Israelis had responded at all. The secret correspondence between the Soviet Union and Israel was the first formally conducted in decades. Both had attacked each other in statements released to the media, but government talks of all types had simply not existed.

After all, why would they? Israel was a rogue state, an avowed enemy of the wider Triumvirate, hanging the threat of nuclear devastation over the world. What room for negotiation was there? Personally, Clovis felt this was going to accomplish little, but at least none could say he hadn’t made an effort.

Ironically, it was probably going to be easier to deal with the Israelis than the Indians. He was fairly certain he could have a civil conversation with Israel, while it was much harder to convince a group of hardliners to taper back their bloodlust. Ah, the joys of being the de-facto leader of this group.

The air was a comfortable temperature today, for what little he was outside. The Israelis hadn’t taken chances relying on Soviet promises. A private Israeli plane was sent to a secret airport, where he boarded with Israeli soldiers standing within. He’d forgone the option of a media outlet – it was prudent to keep this under wraps for now. A dozen, with complete uniforms and machine guns, with a full staff of airline attendants who were probably Mossad.

All for him. With how much firepower they were carrying, one might have thought he was Stalin reincarnated. It was almost amusing; they clearly meant to intimidate him, yet he could only view the soldiers with bemusement. The threatening letter aside, he knew full well that Israel would not lay a finger on him.

They were dangerous, not stupid. Irrespective of their rhetoric, they did not want a war with the Triumvirate. He was quite safe, despite what they clearly wanted him to feel. It was their goal to make him feel isolated, alone, and helpless. Please. The Prime Minister was hardly Stalin or Mao who might have been willing to lay a trap like this.

It was, he conceded, possible they could hold him hostage. Even still, he had a feeling that it would be solved with Valentin using his Ghost to teleport to his holding cell and escape. No, he did not expect Israel to have any hidden tricks or traps. Not this time. Merely a meeting, between two leaders.

He was led into the small, well-furnished room of the Prime Minister. The Israeli and old flag of the Islamic Republic were placed in the corners, telling symbology of the closeness between the Jewish and Islamic States, rather ironic. Curtains of navy blue and white were draped over oval windows, that nonetheless filled the room with natural light.

Prime Minister Inna Sarasohn sat alone at the desk, lacking guards or other obvious protection. He’d never met the good Prime Minister in person before, though was well acquainted with her profile. Like most leaders of the Jewish state, she had a military background, though hers had been longer than most.

She was a stern woman in her older age, her black hair showing clear streaks of grey. Eyes of sapphire as piercing as any bullet, and jawline sharp enough to match. Her face was set in perpetual disapproval, like a teacher he remembered having when he was a boy. A golden Star of David was pinned to her lapel, a family heirloom he remembered being told, and a blue and white band around her arm, a memorial to her husband who’d perished in combat.

A shame she was such a thorn in her side. There was much to admire about her.

He smiled. “[Good morning, Prime Minister,]”

She did not smile, but simply nodded as he took the seat opposite her. “[I’m surprised you accepted the offer.]”

Well, wasn’t that a pleasant surprise. Her accent was pronounced, but understandable. “[So you _do_ speak Russian. My people have suspected as much.]”

A smile that seemed foreign to her face briefly appeared. “[It is prudent to speak the language of one’s enemy, especially when observing the interrogation of the KGB officers you send into my country.]”

“[Pragmatic, and I would expect nothing less,]” Clovis, ignored the jab. It was hardly an admission of much – the KGB did the same for any Mossad agents they captured in the Soviet Union. He took a relaxed position, appraising the woman opposite him. “[Your surprise was unnecessary. Despite the threatening tone your diplomats took in the letter, both of us know that I am taking no risk by this travel. We can save us both some time, and get to the heart of the matter. I am not one for diplomatic small talk, and I suspect you are not either.]”

“[Bluntness I can work with, General Secretary,]” Inna leaned forward. “[No previous administration has reached out to Israel except to threaten us. You are not here to negotiate, so tell me what you really want.]”

“[On the contrary, Prime Minister, negotiation is _exactly_ what I am here for,]” Clovis rapped his fingers idly as he continued. “[Terrorism rising worldwide, an alien in the sky changing our solar system, your quiet mobilization of soldiers, and Indians on your border under the command of the Butcher of Arabia. The world is rushing towards a climax, and both of us can see it. I cannot speak for sure how it will end, but I can say with confidence that we will be standing at the end.]”

He took a knowing pause. “[I cannot say that for everyone.]”

“[Confidence born of comfort and arrogance,]” Inna scoffed.

“[Curious that you speak of _arrogance_,]” Clovis smiled. “[You reside in a country smaller than most of the states of America. You govern a population of only a few million people, and an equally small military. You shield the remnants of a failed theocracy. Yet you stand alone, and demand the world to follow your whim. If it is not arrogance to command such _miniscule_ power, and yet expect the world to listen, then I do not know what is.]”

“[Touché, General Secretary,]” Inna smiled again, one with no friendliness in it. “[Yet our arrogance is not born from nothing.]”

“[And neither is mine,]” Clovis laced his fingers together. “[We both know the game being played here, your expedited support and funding of the so-called Resistance to the Triumvirate. We both know it is led by the former Supreme Leader of the Islamic Republic. The exile you willingly gave shelter to. Terrorism thrives because of Israeli support, and it is something we understandably take issue with.]”

“[Of course you do,]” Inna said. “[Perhaps you have considered that before giving the Indians Carte Blanche to invade our land. We were not going to succumb to your rabid Indian dogs who would have burned our people at the stake for the crime of divergent religion. Muslim. Jew. Christian. Atheist. All the Indians have wished to stamp out. We would not succumb to a power that espoused their fanaticism and genocide, or those who enabled them.]”

She rested her arms on the table, leaning forward. “[We have our own spies too, General Secretary. The Soviet Union has aided and abetted every atrocity inflicted by your allies. The systemic purges and rape of the Japanese. The purges and coups of Communists and leftists in South America at the whims of the Americans. And of course, the domestic terrorism the KGB inflicted to fan the flames of the Workers Revolutions. And you dare complain to me about _terrorism_ when your state has been exporting terror for the past half century. Do not claim the mantle of morality unless you wish to demonstrate your delusion.]”

She was sharp-tongued, quite interesting. “[Prime Minister, when have I _ever_ indicated this was about _morality_,]” he chided. “[We know the reality of the world. Morality is as pointless as truth, and as malleable as ideology. I don’t care that you fund your religious terrorists. Let them kill each other for all I care – but when they pose a direct threat to my nation? Now that I’m afraid I take issue with.]”

“[And I will ask you again, General Secretary,]” she repeated. “[Why are you really here?]”

“[It is over,]” he said simply, though in a kind voice. “[You may refuse to accept it, at least outwardly. But we both know how this ends. The days of Israeli independence are ending. However, I do not believe it needs to end violently. It would serve neither of us, though you have for more to lose than we.]”

“[The fact that you are here indicates that it is far from over.]” She narrowed her eyes.

“[Prime Minister, I am here because it would reflect poorly on me and the Soviet Union if I unilaterally crushed your terror state into pieces, and condemned your people to the mercy of the Indians,]” he responded sharply, letting the friendly mask slip, though kept his voice controlled. “[I do not wish to give your nation legitimacy. You have earned nothing but the right to be wiped off the face of this earth – a judgement I will gladly execute. But my own desires come after what is best for my nation and the Triumvirate – and what is best is offering you an out.]”

“[Do tell.]” From her tone, he doubted she was actually considering it.

“[Simple,]” he said. “[You first disavow and turn over Grand Ayatollah Hamaza el-Hussein and his inner circle to us. He’ll get a trial in Geneva, where he will be found guilty of terrorism and conspiracy against the Triumvirate. You will immediately cease all funding and training operations for known and hidden resistance or terror organizations. You will also turn over all atomic weapons fully or partially completed, and shut down all nuclear facilities.]”

He paused. “[In return, the Soviet Union will publicly guarantee your independence from the Republic of Indian Territories,]” he continued. “[The Indians will argue, but their complaints will be ignored. You, the Knesset, and the Israeli military and intelligence services will receive full and pre-emptive pardons for any actions you may or may not have taken. No reparations needed, and the sanctions against your country will be lifted in full.]”

Inna was appraising him closely. “[You came with a legitimate offer. I am surprised.]”

“[I do not waste my time on pointless symbolic gestures and toothless intimidation,]” Clovis said. “[We are both adults, and beyond the petty games of juvenile politicians. I have an objective I seek to fill. I am not an unreasonable person – I find that such mindsets often fail to get far in diplomacy. I would prefer to not have to refer to you as a terror state, and this will be your singular chance to have the slate wiped clean.]”

He lifted a finger, and reached down to the briefcase and opened. From it he withdrew several documents. “[There is another element you should take into your calculus. Let us say it is a state secret, but one I think will prove that your days are numbered.]”

The Prime Minister flipped through the documents, her eyes lingering on the pictures and schematics. “[I presume these are what I think they are?]”

“[The ATLAS,]” Clovis rested his arms on the armrests, allowing the satisfaction to show on his face, the feeling of a man who held all of the cards. “[The Traveler has provided us with knowledge you simply do not have. The next-generation missile detection and elimination systems. Your nuclear weapons will be useless if they are blasted out of the sky. We will surround your borders with them, and end the threat you pose.]”

He lifted a hand. “[Now, I’m sure you could smuggle some in somewhere, but that will be slightly less effective when we install detection systems throughout cities, and overhaul our security infrastructure. Thanks to the terrorist attacks, we have the appropriate justification to do so.]”

He let her read for a few minutes more. “[Again I will say – it is over. This will be the first and only offer you will receive.]” He forestalled a response as he stood. “[I do not require an answer now – I would hardly expect you to make a choice like this spur-of-the moment. Consult with your advisors, your legislature. Discuss the future of your country.]”

Clovis let the satisfaction and cheer fade from his face, as he locked eyes with the Prime Minister. “[Choose your path wisely, Prime Minister. This chance will not come again.]”

***

**TRIUMVIRATE INTELLIGENCE COMMAND | TAMPA | CONFEDERATION OF AMERICAN STATES**

They lived in interesting times.

The TIS continued to do their jobs, update the Triumvirate on various operations and attacks, all of which were cordially accepted with nothing said or communicated in return. Fox now wasn’t the only one to notice the cool dismissal of the agency by the rest of the Triumvirate, and the subtle removal from important affairs.

It was even more obvious when there was a wealth of terrorist activities happening around the world. Not a day went by when there was an attack of some kind. The intelligence reports were grim. Militant insurgencies in the Middle East even after Arjun’s crackdowns, partisan groups forming in China, and indications of ethnic hardliners in South America.

Now more than ever was the time for the world to come together and end the terrorist threat. Unfortunately, that did not seem to be happening – or at least it was happening without him and his agency. He didn’t know what had possessed the Indians to appoint the literal Butcher of Arabia without _any_ consultation - and it seemed they hadn’t bothered to ask any other opinions either. If there was _anyone_ who would elicit sympathy for terrorists, it would be when stories of Arjun’s ruthlessness reached the media.

Wonderful_._

If only it was just insolent Indians, but there was the matter of the silent omission of his own agency. He’d initially wondered if it was largely targeted to him, but his discussions over the past couple of weeks with his staff showed that it was definitely an agency concern.

One which none of them were quite sure how to handle yet. Or rather, how they _should_ handle it. There were contingencies, some more risky and extreme than others. Ones that he had always been afraid to pull out, but the trends were clear. The Triumvirate was changing, and it wasn’t in a positive direction.

A pile of documents were placed on his desk. The sun was going down, and his wife was going to be upset he would be working late again. Difficult as it was, times like these were why he made a point not to discuss work. It was a risk for himself, one which he would not pass on to her. Best that she be spared the weight of the world he now carried.

The world had entered a new technological age. Data and digitization had become the new currency, and it was an unquestionable leap forward. No more did agents have to dig through dozens of poorly labeled filing cabinets for one obscure file, now they could perform a few searches in a database and have the information they needed. It was easier to secure, convenient to use, and was infinitely replicable.

At the same time, there was something to be said about the old ways of physical storing. Times like these, it was a benefit. It was the reason he had these documents physically in front of him instead of signing them digitally like he’d prefer. Each of them were blue papers, the official format for operational authorizations.

If the Triumvirate wasn’t going to cooperate, it was up to him to figure out what they were doing. They didn’t want his help with the terrorists for whatever reason, and even that alone was concerning for security reasons – but if that was the case they could manage on their own. He disliked that truth, as these terrorists needed to be neutralized for the good of the citizens, but there was only so much he could do, and running parallel ops without coordination would only lead to misunderstanding and likely condemnation.

Thus, alternatives.

Each mission was assigned to someone who he knew he could trust, or who others he knew did trust, who would put the Triumvirate above nation. Such were somewhat rare, even in the TIS, but there were enough. The missions ranged from observation, to infiltration, and contact. From the Black Armory to BrayTech the TIS would find out what exactly was so secret that they would risk defanging the sole joint agency that had existed for decades in a period of unquestionable strife and uncertainty.

He had a strong suspicion that everything revolved around the Traveler. That had been the catalyst, an understandable one for sure, but one which had clearly altered the calculus of every Triumvirate nation. For good, ill, or otherwise, he needed to know the truth for this shift. He hadn’t decided what he would do with it.

That was a decision to make when the time came.

It began with the personnel of TERRA ONE. Each of them had been deliberately kept on Mars while the others had been taken back. This included terrorists, albeit only one. He was ignoring that for the moment, as it was the others he was more interested in. The past weeks, Morocco in particular had shown something he felt like a fool for not recognizing earlier.

It was beautifully elegant when the pieces came together. The notion that the Traveler was off doing her own thing, and ignoring the politics of Earth was simply that – a notion. The people she’d chosen were far from the ideal Triumvirate citizen. They had opinions, beliefs, and backgrounds that didn’t _mesh_ with the existing societal order.

And what happened when you gave dissidents influence? Trouble.

China was the case study of this particular phenomenon. Fox had watched with bemused detachment and amazement as a single man was openly challenging the established order, and continuing to succeed. The other Chinese personnel of TERRA ONE were starting to echo Fang Sov, and link closer to him. Independent media was growing, and the Chinese censors were forced to let slightly more deviant talk thrive for fear of Sov calling them out.

Massive state-run corporations overseen by the Chinese oligarchs were being forced to raise standards after strikes were organized, and the wages of their workers increased – something that would doubtless affect worldwide supply chains in the next year. The Chinese surveillance state was starting to crumble, and he had it on good authority that President Li had absolutely no idea how to properly handle it.

Something had to give sooner or later. There was a line that Sov would cross one day, and the state would step in. Now it was no longer a matter of _if_ it would happen, but _when_. Regardless, Fang Sov and his band of dissidents were individuals to contact. If he could scare the Communist Empire that much, he needed an ally before he had an “accident” befall him.

In contrast, Clovis Bray had done a far superior job keeping his TERRA ONE personnel placated – although despite the masterful display of political maneuvering and placation, it had still not changed Valentin completely. If the Soviet poster child was speaking out, then there were certainly others.

All of whom should also become connected. Fox had been in this long enough to know how these governments operated. Even the purported democracies offered no protection to those which threatened power and the status quo. He’d prefer that the dissidents not needlessly throw their lives away; not without some grander strategy.

Very clever of the Traveler to do this. Far easier to change a people through elevating sympathetic and like-minded puppets than through simple conquest, easy as that might be. In a way, he knew that he was part of this, else there was no other reason Watcher-7 would have been sent to him.

The only piece that didn’t make sense yet was the terrorist. That continued to be the question mark, though one he would solve at some point.

The pen scribbled his signature on a dozen blue papers, and tomorrow he would sign a dozen more. No digital record would exist, only filing into a single cabinet deep underground in Triumvirate Intelligence Command. Less chance of certain individuals snooping and finding it. His staff were aware and trusted, they were all motivated by something greater than nationalism and global supremacy.

The dream of the Triumvirate might be threatened, but none would say they hadn’t done their part to preserve it.

“Finished, sir?” Brask asked as Fox signed the last papers.

“For now,” he picked up the sheets, and straightened them into a neat pile before handing them to his Chief Organizational Analyst. “I’ll make the calls shortly.”

“Yes, sir,” Brask nodded, despite the clear trepidation on his face. “I hope this doesn’t backfire.”

“You and me both,” he agreed.

“Has this ever been done before?” He asked after a few moments.

“Operations relating to the Triumvirate itself? Yes, but rarely,” Fox answered. “I know because I made a point to find out any precedent when I updated our agency contingencies. Minor things mostly, and never without as least the leadership of the Triumvirate being aware. Usually corruption or terrorism connections. Not like this.”

“Ah, wonderful.”

“On the bright side,” Fox smiled grimly. “They seem to not be paying attention to us.”

Brask snorted. “Their loss. I still don’t get it. There is always an inciting incident.”

“I’m quite sure I know the inciting incident,” Fox jabbed a thumb towards Watcher-7 hovering in front of the side window. “Unless you can think of another, that’s the one I’m going with.”

“That’d made more sense if they weren’t already involved everywhere,” Brask put the documents into his bag. “You can’t see a press conference now without a Ghost flying around somewhere.”

“Yes, but as far as I know, I’m the only one who wasn’t on Mars who had one of these show up,” he looked over to the Ghost in question. “Unless there is something you’d like to share?”

“I cannot confirm or deny,” Watcher-7 said, in a tone which was effectively confirmation.

“Cheeky,” Brask grumbled, lifting an eyebrow. “Do all of them have sarcasm as their default setting?”

The fins of Watcher-7 spun. “No, only the defective ones.”

“You didn’t mention it was a joker,” Brask said.

“He’s normally not,” he fixed Watcher-7 with an intense look. “I don’t know what’s got into him today.”

“Mood levitation,” Watcher-7 said. “This is a period of risk for both of you. The Traveler commends your initiative.”

“Tell her thanks, I guess,” Brask shrugged. “Have a good night, Director. Let’s hope this goes well.”

“Indeed,” Fox agreed.

It had to go well. Otherwise there was a very good chance all of them would end up dead.

***

**KNESSET | TEL AVIV | ISRAEL**

Visiting the center of Israeli government elicited mixed feelings in Hamaza. Not the least of which was because there were elements in the Israeli government who were very much against the housing of the Iranian exiles, and because to be summoned in this manner was usually not good.

Despite the close cooperation between Israel and the Resistance, those ties were often obfuscated as much as possible, and the leaders traditionally communicated through intermediaries or backchannels. Even if it was effectively an open secret Israel was supporting the Resistance, optics remained important, and enabled others such as the British and Canadians to maintain neutrality.

The same principle was applicable here, as both parties did their best to limit the potential media exposure and resulting fallout. He was escorted by Israeli soldiers in an unmarked van into a controlled entrance into the building. While technically there was nothing concerning in the note Prime Minister Inna had sent to him, she wouldn’t risk sharing the real reason for her summons until he was in person.

With India on the borders, the Israeli military beginning to fully mobilize, and the world becoming more chaotic every day, there could be one of many reasons for _now_ being the time she wanted to speak. The path to her office was similarly covered by stationed soldiers, preventing anyone from seeing his escort throughout the Knesset. She really _didn’t_ want this to get out.

Unusual.

The Prime Minister was sitting down as he entered, though stood as he approached. “[Hamaza, welcome,]” both spoke Arabic, and it was a much more natural language for them to speak then English. He knew she spoke Russian, but unfortunately that was one he’d never learned.

He smiled. “[You as well, Inna, it’s been too long.]”

“[Realities of government and politics,]” she said with a tired resignation, returning to her desk to sit down, which Hamaza copied until both leaders were seated opposite each other.

Hamaza smoothed out some wrinkles in his robe. “[What is happening, Inna? You would not summon me for pleasantries.]”

“[As much as I wish that were the case, you’re right,]” she said, resting her clasped hands on the table. “[I received a visit from Clovis Bray.]”

His eyebrows shot up, and a surge of alarm went through him. “[_Here_?]”

“[Here, and in the flesh,]” she quickly raised a hand. “[Before you say anything – we took every precaution. The Soviets reached out to us, and wanted to arrange a meeting. We thought it was a trap, and sent back a list of conditions. Conditions they, surprisingly, accepted. Just Bray, no escorts, bodyguards, or spies. We picked him up in Soviet territory with our plane, flew him here, and returned him. Controlled every step of the way.]”

“[And he _agreed_?]” Hamaza found it difficult to contain the incredulity.

“[He did, though mostly because he’s smart and mind games don’t work on him,]” Inna begrudgingly admitted. “[He knew very well we wouldn’t do anything, and called our bluff.]”

Hamaza rubbed his beard, the reason why she had called him swiftly becoming clear. “[I’m surprised he wanted to talk to you at all. Neither he nor the Triumvirate have had kind words for Israel.]”

“[He basically admitted he was only here for optical reasons,]” Inna snorted. “[There seem to be some people in his government – or the Triumvirate - pushing for more diplomacy, and combined with the Traveler, he’s forced to be more cautious and do things he otherwise wouldn’t want to do. Still, the fact is he swallowed his dislike, and came.]”

“[And what did he say?]” Hamaza wondered. “[To deliver a threat?]”

“[Not as explicit as that,]” Inna pursed her lips. “[He had an offer. We turn over you and the Iranian exiles, end our support of the Resistance, and denuclearize. In return we are guaranteed against Indian aggression, have the sanctions lifted, and have the diplomatic slate wiped clean so to speak. No reparations, public apologies, acknowledgements, condemnations, anything.]”

The bad feeling he’d had returned at her words. What she described was far from the implicit threat he would have expected from the Triumvirate. That, in contrast to expectations, was a legitimately fair offer – at least in context of the history between both parties. An offer that he knew was tempting.

A long moment of silence stretched. “[Are you considering it?]”

Inna’s hand idly rested on the table as she sat back, her eyes briefly unfocused. “[Between us, he made a tempting offer, one that if I went before the Knesset, I would be pressured to accept. I don’t want to do it, Hamaza. I really don’t, but…]”

“[He’s a _Soviet_, do you truly believe you can trust him?]”

“[In this instance, Hamaza? Yes, I do,]” she said. “[He’s dangerous and cunning. He isn’t a comically evil and inept leader like we’d prefer. He has no reason to go back on his word, not when this deal would doom the Resistance movement forever. He’s not stupid enough to risk that because his ego demands Israel be brought under the Hammer and Sickle.]”

Hamaza shook his head. “[He promised protection from another Triumvirate nation. That is a lie. He wouldn’t insult India like that.]”

“[Maybe,]” Inna’s voice was unconvinced. “[India has become more radical, and the original three have never liked India. It’s far from inconceivable that the Soviets would take a harder line, especially since India is putting people like Arjun in important positions.]”

Hamaza took a breath, and briefly closed his eyes before meeting her own again. “[Is this a warning to flee while I can?]”

“[Not today, not yet,]” Inna shook her head. “[My country made a promise to your people. I will not willingly break that. At the same time – I’m not under illusions about what is coming. The Triumvirate cannot be beaten, not anymore. We have our nukes, but what happens when those aren’t a threat anymore?]”

She wouldn’t say that unless she knew something. “[What did he say to you?]”

Without a word, she pushed forward a small pile of documents, some of which were pictures and others technical documents. He picked them up and flipped through them. Much of the terminology was alien to him, but from the pictures he could make several assumptions about what they were.

“[Missile defenses, new generation,]” she said after a few minutes of reading. “[Designed to intercept nuclear weapons. Radiation sensors to detect any hidden in cities. Potential misinformation to scare us, but I’ve had my people look them over. They’re legitimate. Clovis wouldn’t make something like this up, not unless he has it or will have it.]” There was a pause. “[Those copies you can keep. Verify them yourselves, maybe you’ll pick up something we didn’t.]”

She pulled her hand back into her lap. “[You fight the good fight, but I have a country to consider. My citizens can’t live as insurgents in caves and deserts. They are not fighters and survivors like yours are. They’re tired of the conflict. They’re tired of always feeling scared. They’re tired of the sanctions. They want this to end. I can’t keep supporting something that isn’t going to materialize, or a victory which is impossible.]”

“[Victory is not impossible.]”

“[Spare me, Hamaza, I’m not one of your jihadists,]” Inna snorted. “[The situation has changed. Liberman has shown me the weapons the Indians are using. There is an alien power supporting the Triumvirate now. We’re going to lose our sole deterrent within a year, minimum. I can’t rely on things like _faith_ and _hope_ when the alternative if you’re wrong is the destruction of my nation and people. We can’t just pick up and _leave_.]”

She was right. He hated it, but on a rational and detached level – she was right. From her perspective, this was potentially the best outcome she could hope for. A client state of the Soviets or Americans was better than complete annexation by the Indians. And yet they couldn’t just give up _now_.

But what could he promise her? That they would be able to topple the Triumvirate? This was now a battle for survival, much less one to achieve their original aim. He couldn’t reasonably make that case to her, and it was pointless appealing to her sense of morals and righteousness. She wanted to keep helping, she _had_ been helping. But the realities of the world were crushing her, she couldn’t be blamed for losing hope.

“[You can’t give in now,]” he said. “[Even if Bray is telling the truth – what is the future for your nation? Domination by the Soviets and Americans? What happens when they are pressured by the Indians? Are they going to risk conflict with them for Israel?]”

She shrugged. “[I cannot see the future, Hamaza. Is certain death preferable to potential death?]”

“[Then don’t make decisions based on it, not yet,]” he insisted.

Her voice was skeptical. “[And what’s going to happen, Hamaza? The Triumvirate is just going to collapse? It’ll see the light and change? Is the Resistance going to move beyond simple militant strikes? The stakes are becoming _too high_. At what point do both of us need to realize that it’s _not working_. Your people are willing to move and die for the cause. I’m not in a situation where it’s that simple.]”

“[Did he give you a timeline?]”

“[To accept the offer? No, but he implied it should be sooner than later,]” Inna said. “[Which I take to mean, ongoing until he decides to withdraw it. He probably assumes that we’ll give you a chance to leave. He doesn’t care, because alone…you won’t be a real threat to him.]”

“[Six months,]” Hamaza said. “[Give us six months. If then, if things are the same…do what you need to do. That’s all I ask.]”

“[You ask a lot.]”

“[Because as you said, the stakes are so high.]”

There was a stretching silence. Inna’s face remained still and unreadable. Hamaza believed she would do the right thing, but she was a woman who was pragmatic. Perhaps this was an issue where she would not be nudged, and had gone past the point of no return. Her lips parted in a small sigh, as her body became slightly less tense. “[Six months, Hamaza. No more.]”

The deadline was set.

He nodded. “[No more. Thank you.]”

“[Don’t thank me,]” she said softly. “[Win. Don’t force me to make this choice.]”

He wanted to make that promise, but all he could do was nod in acknowledgement. The stakes were higher than ever.

The clock was audibly ticking, and the end now approached with every second.

***

**BRAYTECH FUTURESCAPE | MARS**

The Futurescape was coming along very nicely in the months since he’d decided to visit Mars again. Most of the outward construction was winding down, or had shifted outside the original boundaries. Most of the work Valentin could see was being done by landscapers and cosmetic teams to make it look suitably professional – and rather futuristic. He liked it.

Most of the workers and personnel didn’t pay a lot of attention to him as he walked along the sidewalks. As far as Mars days went, this one was…good? He idly felt like checking on the Martian weather patterns, since he knew they existed, but inclement weather was not quite as common as on Earth. Still hard to believe that it had just been a barren rock not too long ago.

There were other worlds and moons that had now been changed by the Traveler, and those he’d have to travel to some day. However, he was here for a specific reason, if one he was a bit rattled by. His business bag was clutched tightly to his side, as if it could slip out of his grasp at any point.

Paranoia, which he probably shouldn’t have.

Couldn’t be helped in some cases. Like now.

He still wasn’t completely sure _what_ he’d found, but given the sheer amount of information he had access to, he was somewhat concerned that there was more hidden that he hadn’t found, or wasn’t smart enough to understand. It might be nothing, but he wasn’t really comfortable with approaching Clovis.

It had maybe taken him longer than it should have, but it was looking more and more likely that Clovis was intentionally misleading and placating him. It was a conclusion he could only come to when he wasn’t around the man. It was unsettling just how charismatic he was, and when he was allowed to speak, it was difficult to refute him.

It was impressive, if not somewhat scary to consider. Even now he was wondering if he was just jumping at shadows. Maybe he was, but what Clovis had done with Morocco had deeply shaken his faith in his word. It was very clear that regardless of if Clovis was being straight with him or not, he was much smarter than Valentin was, and on his own it’d be difficult, if not impossible to gain a concrete perspective.

Liana was still busy with some American project, and she was probably being watched to some degree, not to mention she seemed on board with whatever President Quinn was doing. He was willing to follow her lead on that – American politics were not his area of expertise. Fang had been a more solid foundation, although to be fair, the Chinese leaders didn’t exactly obfuscate who they were.

In fact, it was Fang who’d convinced him to come here at all. It was a bit of a risk, but unlike her father, Ana Bray seemed like she could be trusted. Or at least she didn’t have a larger agenda. Which was all he needed, a few questions answered.

“[Excuse me?]” Valentin instinctively froze at the voice, and willed himself to relax. He turned to see a surprising sight.

He awkwardly coughed as a reflex. “[Yes, what can I help you with…]” he hesitated, then decided to go with his memory. “[Miss Bray?]”

Elsie Bray seemed amused. “[‘Miss’ Bray? I’m flattered. Both at the title, and that you remember me.]”

“[We only met for a few minutes at the security briefing,]” Valentin answered. “[And you tend to remember Brays, even if you’ve never met.]”

“[An unfortunate side effect of fame, of which you’re no doubt finding out,]” she chuckled. “[But you can just call me Elsie.]”

“[It’s not been so bad,]” he indicated Vigil floating in orbit around his shoulder. “[I can usually leave whenever I want.]”

“[I wish I had one of those,]” she mused. “[Does the Traveler have sign-ups?]”

“[Vigil?]”

“[It doesn’t quite work like that,]” Vigil said slowly. “[If She wishes someone to be given one, it will be done. I’m afraid I can’t explain the criteria She employs, only that it is to Her alone.]”

“[You can say ‘no’, I won’t be offended,]” Elsie said, bemused. “[Interesting though. But if I might ask, Valentin, why are you here?]”

Valentin quickly ran through what he knew of her – most importantly that she was part of the Triumvirate Intelligence Service. A spy. Which meant that she was very well-connected, and probably trained in figuring out if people were lying. And also connected to her father, which came with its own risks.

He decided to go with _most_ of the truth. “[To see your sister, actually.]”

“[Ana?]” She raised an eyebrow. “[That’s funny, I’ve just come from a talk with her. She didn’t mention someone else was coming, let alone you.]”

“[It’s a bit impromptu,]” he vaguely explained.

“[Really,]” while displaying some amusement, she was appraising him more carefully. “[Do tell. Well, as her sister, I feel a need to pry a bit when strange men take an interest in her.]”

He instinctively bristled at that, and turned slightly red. “[That…it’s definitely not anything like _that_.]”

Elsie unexpectedly chuckled. “[Teasing, don’t worry. Besides, you’re not her type. And you’re too strait-laced to go through some kind of weird secretive surprise meeting – which makes me even more curious.]”

“[That’s a bold assessment from a few minutes of meeting.]”

“[Call it a gift,]” her eyes shifted to the bag. “[I don’t suppose it has anything to do with what’s in that bag?]”

Yes, this definitely seemed like more of a friendly trap, and he _really_ just wanted to have Vigil make him disappear, but that would be both rude and _insanely_ suspicious. At the same time, she was going to wrangle out everything by asking nicely if he didn’t extract himself sooner or later.

_I don’t suppose you could make her leave? Set off an explosion maybe?_

_Ahem, no. I think this is good practice._

_I’d prefer a bit of practice before being thrown into the final test!_

_I don’t think she’s dangerous. Besides, isn’t there a Human saying: “The best way to learn to swim is be thrown into the water”?_

_I’m convinced you completely made that up._

_Paraphrasing – and you should probably say something before she **does** become suspicious._

He forced a tight smile. “[Technical documents, if you must know. I’ve been reviewing some Triumvirate papers – quite a few of which are pretty technical. Ana said to come to her if I had questions with things I came across – I thought I’d take her up on that offer.]”

That ‘offer’ was a lie, of course, but mixed in with enough truth that hopefully she’d buy it. To his relief, Elsie nodded. “[Sounds about right. I’d offer myself, but technical stuff isn’t my forte, much less anything to do with computer science.]” She checked her wristwatch. “[…And I’ve held you up long enough. Have a good meeting, or discussion, or whatever you consider it.]”

“[Appreciated,]” Valentin resisted a sigh of relief. “[I’m sure we’ll see each other again.]”

“[Very likely, it’s a small world, after all,]” Elsie smiled, and patted his shoulder as she moved past, before briefly pausing, contemplating. “[Can we use that saying now that we have multiple worlds? Ah, doesn’t matter. See you later.]” With a final wave, she finally turned and departed.

“[You too,]” he said, watching her mingle into the small crowds. When she was fully gone, he exhaled and took a moment to reassert himself.

_She put a listening device on your waist._

_What!_

_Don’t make any moves. She’s still watching – changed her appearance. Quite impressive._

_Ok, I’ll take it off once I go inside._ He began walking into the Futurescape, still communicating with Vigil.

_Maybe you should leave it._

_Why would I **ever** do that?_

_I think we can trust her._

_Based on what? She’s a Bray **and** a spy!_

_Not all Brays are necessarily bad. We are going to talk to one, after all._

_And unlike her sister, Ana was clearly not trying to wring as much information out of me when we talked._

_Do you trust me?_

_Yes, but-_

_But I would leave it – this is just harmless technical talk._

Valentin bit his tongue. He didn’t like the idea of having a third party listening, but Vigil was adamant, and annoyingly may be more right than he was willing to admit. Elsie didn’t set off his alarm bells, but any good spy would be able to do that. Hell, Clovis himself proved that you could be nice and considerate and not necessarily be on his side.

He shook his head, deciding to just focus. Best to just watch his words.

_Fine. But after this, if she’s still watching. This is what we do._

Vigil concurred, and they soon found where Ana was, thanks to some of the Futurescape staff. He was slightly irritated with himself that he hadn’t just asked Elsie where she last was. But soon enough, they entered a _much_ more complete lab, of which Ana was standing and having a conversation with one of the scientists.

She spotted him and seemed briefly taken aback, but ended the conversation. “[Valentin! I didn’t expect you here!]”

“[Sorry for the surprise visit,]” he said. “[But I have something I’d like your opinion on.]”

There was a question in her eyes, but she nodded slowly. “[Sure. What is it?]”

He looked around. “[Do you have an office? Or someplace not out in the open?]”

“[Yep, this way,]” she led him a short distance to an office with the exterior of clouded glass. An immediate answer, he was thankful she didn’t ask the obvious questions yet. She opened it with her keycard, and gestured him inside. It was a fairly bare room, with a couple plants, a couple picture frames, one with her family, one with her sister, and another where she was in a uniform with a man he didn’t recognize.

“[Sorry it’s a bit bare,]” she said, and he returned his attention to her. “[I generally don’t spend a lot of time here. Not until they install a lab computer, which they’re slacking on,] she crossed her arms. “[So, this is something classified then. Are you even sure I can see it?]”

“[You’re the Rasputin Project Lead,]” he said. “[I’d imagine there’s not much you _couldn’t_ see.]”

“[Not quite how that works, but I’ll roll with it,]” she said. “[So what is it?]”

“[I’ve been doing some research into several ongoing Triumvirate programs,]” he said. “[I found something I’m a bit confused by. It’s a bit technical for my liking, maybe you could explain it to a layman, for lack of a better word.]”

“[Well, let’s see then,]” she said, biting her lower lip and her eyes alighting at a potential challenge. Valentin set his bag on the table, and pulled out the documents. There were not too many, mostly overviews and summaries. Ana took them and began pursuing. He expected something after a few moments, but Ana unexpectedly frowned, and went to sit down.

She pursued through the documents for minutes that stretched out longer than they should have. Her expression maintained its serious demeanor that shifted from bafflement to concern. It seemed like whatever this was, she didn’t like it. He finally spoke up. “[Is something wrong?]”

“[I…don’t know,]” she said slowly.

“[Do you know what it is?]”

“[Yes, I can _understand_ it just fine, but it’s…odd,] she trailed off.

“[How…?]”

“[In layman’s terms…this is effectively describing the application of an artificial intelligence to microtech. Nanotechnology to be specific, which is odd because…nanotech at the level its describing doesn’t exist yet. It’s being prototyped, yes, but we’ve hardly mastered the basics, let alone what this is implying…]”

Valentin waited. “[Maybe they’re further along than we think?]”

“[Not ruling that out,]” she said slowly. “[But even if they were…I’m not sure why you’d want a true artificial intelligence to manage it. That only has a few applicable circumstances, none of them really good.]”

“[Why ‘not good’?]”

“[I guess it depends on your perspective,]” Ana said. “[Mostly weaponization. Potentially medical uses, but that’s unnecessarily complex. And I shouldn’t have to say that the weaponization of nanotech is a stupidly _bad_ idea.]”

“[At the risk of sounding ignorant…why?]”

“[Because it can grow out of control,]” Vigil unexpectedly interjected, causing Ana and Valentin to look at him. “[A species once wished to use swarms of nanites to protect their worlds, in the event that they were invaded. They did so – and then it was accidentally triggered, and they were consumed by the machines designed to protect them. Their worlds were reduced to husks, until the Traveler came and brought new life to them.]”

“[Huh, so we actually have proof of a grey goo scenario,]” Ana said. “[Well, there you go. Basically, that. I’m not saying that’s what this is, but…]”

“[Maybe it’s not AI related? Just a basic machine intelligence?]”

“[It’s not,]” Ana motioned to the documents. “[A lot of these terms are ones I’m using every day. You don’t use them in the context of simple machine programming. It’s definitely AI – specifically _Warmind_ AI, and that’s really odd. Do you mind if I keep these? I’m going to make a few calls. Someone should be able to answer this.]”

“[Sure,]” well, at least this was proving he hadn’t made a misjudgment. All of what she’d said did not sound good. “[Though…be careful, I guess. I might have found something I shouldn’t have.]”

“[I wouldn’t worry,]” Ana smiled grimly. “[Lucky for you, I’m someone who is immune to reprisal. The Bray name comes in useful every now and then for something other than nepotism, and if there’s a Triumvirate scientist messing with weaponized nanotech, they’ll be fired by the end of the week, you can be sure of it.]”

Well, that was good news. “[Thank you. I’m glad you could figure it out.]”

“[I should thank you, actually,]” Ana said with a lighter smile now. “[For trusting me. Most people are afraid we’re going to relay everything back to my father.]”

“[Have to admit, I wondered that,]” he said. “[But…I had a good feeling.]”

“[Keep listening to that feeling then,]” she encouraged. “[Although now that I think of it…how did you even get here?]”

He gestured to Vigil. “[The wonders of instantaneous teleportation.]”

She chuckled. “[Wish I could do that, but sadly us mortals are stuck within the laws of physics and limits of technology.]”

“[For now, anyway,]” Valentin said. “[From what I’m hearing, there’s new discoveries being made every day.]”

“[That there are,]” she agreed. “[Well, as good as this talk was…]”

“[You’ve got work to do,]” Valentin finished. “[I won’t bother you again – and if I stop by, I’ll try to give a bit of a warning.]”

“[Which I would appreciate,]” she said. “[Take care, Valentin.]”

“[You too,]” the farewells over, he stepped out of her office.

_That went well._

_It did._

_Is Elsie still on the planet?_

_One moment._

Vigil blinked out of existence a few seconds, then returned.

_Yes, she’s still here._

_Excellent, let’s say hello. Again._

There was a flash of light, and they materialized in a place on the outskirts of the Futurescape, where they could see the massive Mindlab being built. The shell was effectively complete, and it was quite the impressive sight. They were a short distance from Elsie, who was indeed leaning on the balcony, looking quite innocent.

He didn’t know if it was something he’d just missed, or she’d put it in, but there was a small device in her left ear. He cleared his throat, causing her to jump, and her eyes widened when she saw him, and briefly flashed with fear. “[Hello there!]”

“[I…Valentin,]” she awkwardly coughed. “[Hello…again.]”

“[Conversation as interesting as you hoped?]” He asked, not wanting to waste time on small talk.

“[I-]”

“[Save it,]” he lifted the extremely small device in his fingers, before approaching with a cold smile, and placing it into her palm. “[I may not be a spy, but I do have a friend who watches my back. Isn’t that right?]”

“[Always,]” Vigil bobbed, while his center eye turned yellow. Elsie visibly swallowed.

“[In the future,]” Valentin said, adopting the similar false levity in his voice. “[Don’t spy on me again. And on your sister for that matter. That’s just wrong. Otherwise…]” He nodded towards the Ghost, as Vigil’s eye shifted to red. He had to admit, it was quite satisfying to see the spy on the spot for once, instead of the controlled cool agent. “[Are we clear?]”

“[You’ve made your point.]”

“[Good,]” Valentin motioned for Vigil to return to normal. “[_Now_ we can say goodbye – for now.]”

He didn’t want for her to respond, and had Vigil teleport him away. Overall, this had been a very productive few hours. One Bray he could probably trust, and one he probably could _not_. Better to know than the alternative.

Now he would have to wait.

Or maybe do some more digging. After all, he’d found something that probably shouldn’t be happening. There might be other things to find as well.

***

**BUCKINGHAM PALACE | LONDON | UNITED KINGDOM**

The British were as paranoid as the Israelis when it came to secrecy and meetings. The British demanded their own planes, and insisted he fly in them. He supposed there were worse things he could deal with than spending a few hours with a plane full of MI6 agents. Although there was a distinct difference between this flight and the Israeli one.

The Israelis had largely maintained an air of professionalism and neutrality. They didn’t like him, but they followed the philosophy of “if your enemy is comfortable, they’ll let their guard down and maybe reveal something”. Not that it worked whatsoever, but he could understand and respect the outlook.

In contrast, the air around the British was tense.

The MI6 operatives kept their stone faces still, but he could see the sheer hate in their eyes whenever he took notice. Their voices were clipped, and only conveyed the absolute minimum to him. There was no pretext of civility here. Each person here wanted nothing more than to kill him.

They wouldn’t, but they made no secret that they deeply wanted to – and it spoke to how deep the hatred of the Soviet Union ran within the British.

He couldn’t _entirely_ blame them. He would likely also be bitter if they had slowly and completely shattered the regional hegemony he enjoyed, and reduced their status from a worldwide empire to an island with a storied history. Like Israel, the influence of the United Kingdom was no longer relevant.

It was a new world, and some were adapting to it better than others. The British had enjoyed their time as the world’s superpower – now it was time for others.

It struck him that he was the first Soviet official to step foot on the British Isles in…four decades? Longer? Probably longer. The point being that it had been a long time, and while there was no media to record this historic occasion, he would have to satisfy himself with a meeting with Her Royal Majesty herself.

Monarchs. It was amusing to consider in the modern day. Aside from a few self-declared African nations, the British Monarchy was the last of its own in the world. Largely because the Triumvirate had systematically abolished every monarchy they’d come in contact with. The world had moved beyond them.

There were more civilized ways of deciding and elevating leaders who were far more fair and efficient then being born into the right family or bearing the right bloodline. Yet so long as the United Kingdom remained intact, the Royal Family would maintain their chokehold on British politics. Ironically, Clovis believed that the Triumvirate was likely the reason for the resurgence of the Royal shadow government.

The United Kingdom had been on their way to effectively making the Royals obsolete, outside of a cultural curiosity. But the expansion of the Soviet Union, the abandonment by America in favor of the Triumvirate, the rise of an independent India, the fires of the Workers Revolutions all over Europe, and the infighting and incompetence of British politicians had forced the hand of the Royals, who’d suspended Parliament and dismissed everyone and built a new government from the ground up.

One dedicated to the opposition of the Soviet Union.

The hand of the Royals had been guiding the British ever since, and ushered in the security state which was ironically Soviet in its execution. He quite admired how elegantly the British had employed their media and intelligence agencies to rapidly shift the public opinion. Communists and most left-wing parties were outright banned, unions had been abolished, strikes had been answered with bullets, and each existing party was one flavor of nationalism and anti-Soviet rhetoric or another.

The Royals were irrelevant on the world stage, but he had to admit that they had made excellent use of their power to seize control of the country. Which was why there was no point in interacting with the puppet Prime Minister. Not when he could go to the source of British authority.

The Buckingham Palace Guards stood as still and silent as they always were as he was marched through the building, though even through their expressionless faces, they could not hide the disdain they felt at his mere presence. The eyes truly were windows to the souls, and in many of the British souls, there was hatred.

Ah well, expected of a fading nation.

He was finally brought before the small throne room, one which had once held dignitaries from all around the world. Leaders and officials who came on state visits to see the Royal Family, perhaps have some tea and crumpets, and the other staples of a visit with the monarchy. These days it was sealed to only the most trusted of the Royals.

It retained its ornate nature, with perfectly polished tiles and bright red carpet which led to the slightly elevated throne upon which the Royals had sat. Chandeliers hung from the ceiling, and light illuminated every corner. Yet otherwise, it was surprisingly bare. Perhaps that was to be expected, given the lack of need to entertain fawning state officials any longer.

Animal mounts were fitted on the walls, filling the space with stuffed hunting trophies - ones which immediately caught his eye. Bears. Newly stuffed, newly cleaned, and newly installed bear trophies.

Clever.

He _did _have an opening above his fireplace, perfect for a new mount. It would be a fitting souvenir. What animal to choose would be the hardest question. Something he would ponder on the flight back.

It was customary that there were two thrones, which in reality were little more than ornate chairs, and as the rumors went, uncomfortable to sit in. One for the King and Queen, or one of the Monarchs and sometimes a state official to sit in for a photo op. Now there was only one who was worthy to sit in the place of British power.

Queen Alexandra II was not someone who was ever supposed to sit upon the throne. In the wake of Queen Elizabeth’s unfortunate death after contracting a quite nasty flu, it had been assumed that the line of succession was clear – were it not for the schism even within the Royals about how to handle the retreating Americans, the encroaching Soviets, and European Chaos.

Alexandra had married into the family, and by rights she should not have ever had a chance, even if she was married to one who _was_. It had been widely suspected that it had been Alexandra who had convinced her husband to make a push for the throne, and there were few Royals who were as shrewd as Alexandra was. The throne had clearly been her ambition for years.

It had been her who had rallied the British against the Soviets, ushering in a new age of nationalism. While Royals had previously been reluctant to exercise their power, for fear of being perceived as despots, Alexandra had her finger on the pulse of a British people who were scared, desperate, and angry. A villain was needed.

Years of external and internal politics had seen the contenders in line to the throne abdicate, withdraw, or support her instead. What had sealed her ascension was the death of her husband, which was widely believed by the British to have been a Soviet assassination. It wasn’t, and the KGB had been inconclusive on what had actually killed him.

The most conspiratorial was that Alexandra had ordered him assassinated by MI5, as she had developed close ties with British Intelligence, and it was widely believed they were her personal agency. However, Clovis doubted she was _that_ cutthroat. More importantly, it made no sense since her husband was just as dedicated to her ascension as she was. Far more likely in his mind that it had simply been an accident – albeit one she exploited.

No matter the story, there were few who could deny she was worthy of the throne. At just past the age of sixty, hair graying, she sat upon the throne, dignified as Clovis approached, looking down on him with the disdain he had seen from the other British here. The Royals _had_ moved beyond the unnecessarily gaudy costumes, and Alexandra was dressed tastefully in white, with a small silver crown resting on her head.

He briefly inclined his head. She was mad if she expected him to bow. “Your majesty.”

“General Secretary,” she answered neutrally. “I hope you like the new decor?”

A moment of silence passed. “You certainly know how to make a guest feel welcome. I must confess, I expected the traditional British hospitality.”

The Queen smiled coldly. “You would not like the hospitality we normally arrange for Soviets.”

Ah, this was already promising to be entertaining. “Threats already, your majesty? Can we not speak like civilized people.”

“We are, General Secretary, which is why I have not arrested you and put you before MI6 - I do owe them an early christmas gift, after all,” the Queen answered dryly. “I feel there is little to discuss with you. You come for what reason? To threaten or elicit the capitulation of the United Kingdom?”

“While I would like nothing more than to bring the British Isles into the thriving Soviet Union, I have come to accept that will simply not happen with the current status quo,” Clovis said with an exaggerated sigh. “No, today I wish to discuss the immediate future. Relating to the support of the United Kingdom to terrorist groups operating under the orders of the deposed Supreme Leader of Iran.”

“So you say,” Alexandra said emotionlessly. “I am afraid that we cannot help you in this aspect then, General Secretary. I am _certain_ that we would not provide such support to _terrorists_.”

“Is that so?” Clovis mused, putting his hands behind his back and starting to pace. “Quite curious then. There must be a misunderstanding somewhere. In light of these horrific attacks worldwide, the CIA and KGB have been conducting an investigation into the tangled web of terrorist finances – and a notable number of British companies have been implicated.”

His smile tightened. “Normally, that alone wouldn’t raise _too_ many alarms. Companies in your capitalistic system pursue profit above all else – and terrorist money is as good as any other. No, no, what _truly_ raised eyebrows was the methods by which resources were funneled across the world. Hundreds of shell companies, shadowy intermediaries, more proxies than most _actual_ intelligence agencies.”

He inclined his head again. “I must commend British Intelligence on their stellar work. It is a level of sophistication and elegance that my own KGB Chairman expressed admiration for – and he is a hard man to impress. Nonetheless, it was capable of being unraveled, and we know the extent of your meddling. Something we, frankly, should have suspected earlier. Only your country could reliably sustain these terrorists for so long.”

The Queen seemed unperturbed. “And you only have accusations?”

“_Proof_, your majesty. I would not bother making this trip on mere _conjecture_ and _theory_. I have too much respect for you to waste your time.”

She raised an eyebrow. “I question that.”

“Believe it or not, but I do find it a shame our nations hold such disdain for each other,” Clovis sighed. “The world is changing, your majesty. Irreversibly. The Traveler has ensured the continuation of the Triumvirate for a thousand generations. Your resistance is admirable, but futile.”

“The United Kingdom will never submit to the Soviet Union or the Triumvirate,” Alexandra leaned forward. “No matter what you say or threaten, the only way you will gain what you wish is through Soviet blood.”

“Soviet – and English blood,” Clovis said. “Your hatred for my nation is strong – but how long will that last in war? How many mothers, fathers, sons, and daughters will die before the people realize their hopeless situation, led by a Queen who believes that dogma and nationalism were more important than their _lives_.”

He paused his pacing. “You are a woman with a vision, your majesty. I can respect that. But the truth of the matter is this – the days of British influence are coming to an end. The British Empire has fallen, this time forever.”

The Queen was silent for a few moments, then her smile returned and sharpened sapphire eyes fixated on him. “Perhaps. Perhaps not. I seek not to restore the Empire, General Secretary. Tempting as the idea is, I am not delusional. Yet I know how the levers of power and influence work in the modern era, and it is sufficient to make a small nation powerful. You know this, else you would not be speaking to me, when the sheer landmass of the Union, and the allies you have, dwarfs anything we have at our disposal. Yet you still come to me, and have the gall to say that my nation does not matter. That _I_ do not matter.”

She sat back on her throne. “You come to me as an equal, and say that we no longer matter. That might work on some leaders, but _I_ am not one of them. You _underestimate_ Britain’s citizens. You underestimate our _resolve_. You underestimate what _we_ are capable of. You speak of the empires you and the Triumvirate have created, while the old ones have shattered or faded. If there is one thing I can say with certainty, General Secretary, it is that all empires, no matter how large, come to an end – and rarely do most see it coming.”

Her tongue was sharper than Inna’s, and she had slightly more backbone. A challenge he could enjoy. “And will you say that when we reveal the extent of British corruption throughout the business world? When the world levies sanctions as they did to Israel? When the Americans formally sever the last ties they have with you?”

“Then I wish you luck,” the Queen’s smile was maintained. “Whatever proof you believe you have, it will not be enough. Do you sincerely believe that our supposed business corruption will result in consequences? Will the Americans risk sanctioning some of the largest companies in the world? Will they destroy the stock market to endorse your petty rivalry with a nation which continues to deny you?”

She flicked a wrist. “If we are so insignificant as you claim, then who will care? The common citizen? Hardly, especially since the general American public views us positively. Do you believe you are the first Soviet to threaten us? I’ve seen and heard it all. Assassinations, economic devastation, international ruin. The threats are endless and overt. And each time, it has failed. This is no different.”

Alexandra rested her fingertips together. “And you would do well to be careful when bragging about the stability of your nation; of its ‘thousand generations’. I have seen your puppet start to question your aggressive actions. I am receiving daily updates on a brewing revolution in the Communist Empire. Each day more Americans become aware of the system they are in, and how their nation contributes to supporting oppression and tyranny across the world.”

“Says the woman who _herself_ is an unelected despot.”

“I said oppression and tyranny, not _democracy_,” she corrected with a smile. “And the worst we have done pales in comparison to the Soviet gulags, the ethnic cleansing of the Chinese Imperials, the burned corpses by the hand of the Hindu fanatics, and the South American death squads of the Confederation. And what have we done?” she waved a hand. “Destroyed the ideologies and mechanisms which permit their rise.”

“And done so quite effectively, I might add.”

“Indeed,” the Queen nodded. “The point I am making, General Secretary, is that your nation and alliance is more fragile than you want to admit. You portray strength and unity, when the order threatens to unravel more each day. Make your threats, follow through on them if you wish.”

A lioness with fangs and claws.

Irritating, expected, predictable. However, Clovis had to admit that he admired that she had the spine to say that with such…_confidence_. Yes, it was going to be enjoyable to break this nation into pieces. “I have said all I need to then. My offer was given, and I can do little if it is rejected. I hope you are prepared for the consequences.”

“Do not worry about us, General Secretary,” Alexandra said. “We will manage just fine. Enemies for centuries have tried to destroy us, and they have failed. You will be just one more. You’ll find that the sun does not set for our banner.”

“We shall see, your majesty, we shall see,” Clovis said, and with a final nod of farewell, he turned around and departed, his mind running through the next steps to be taken. If the British wanted to call his bluff, well…

That could certainly be arranged.

Perhaps a royal English mount above his fireplace would make a fitting memorial. A tribute to the lioness, stuffed and mounted on his wall. Yes, that would be most fitting, and he hoped she would appreciate the gesture when next she came before him in defeat.

***

**THE CAPITOL BUILDING | WASHINGTON D.C. | CONFEDERATION OF AMERICAN STATES**

It was an odd feeling being this close to the center of American power. Isaiah felt slightly naked in his tourist disguise, but today was the big day. Time to make an impact which would be heard and felt all across the world. He was confident it would work – and if it didn’t…well, he would go down fighting.

Today was an especially important day for the Confederation Congress. The first day of a new session. One where every single Senator and Representative would be in attendance, and ready to begin the new legislative year. There would also be other important people in attendance. The CIA Director, Secretary of State, Secretary of Defense, and other members of the President’s cabinet.

President Quinn was unlikely to be attending, unfortunately. It had been a choice between the Capitol and White House, but the latter was too high risk for failure. The only point of striking it would be to take out the President – and that was too much of an unknown to risk. But the legislature itself?

More likely to be successful, and have an impact.

Tours were still going on, of course. The capital of the Confederation was always a bustling place, and it was easier than one would suspect to latch onto a group. The most important thing was to get inside. Once they were in, it was simply a matter of following the maps and striking fast.

Isaiah and six of his best Dead Cell operatives were with him, a mix of Arabic and Caucasian ethnicities, as it was an unfortunate reality that if there was a group of Arabs, they were likely to be profiled and delayed. That would be unfortunate. This risk was further reduced by having two teams, each assigned to different groups.

No weapons, tools, or explosives this time. They walked through the gates with smiles on their faces and lazily waved through by the underpaid and bored security guards. After all, who would even think of conducting an attack on the capitol of the Confederation of American States? Madmen, or those with a death wish.

Of which Isaiah was neither. Well, maybe a bit mad, but they were backed into a corner.

The clock was ticking. Their timetable was down to months before the Israelis considered pulling their support, and if they pulled out, the British would soon follow, or be significantly hampered. He wouldn’t have considered this operation otherwise. It was risky, but the payoff would be…

He didn’t actually know. Not yet. What he did know?

It would shake the Americans to their core. It was past time that fear returned to them, and the rest of the world. No one was safe if you were in the Triumvirate, no matter if you were on Soviet, Indian, Chinese, or even American soil.

His tour guide was an enthusiastic woman, who was happily explaining the history of the building, the expansions as the Confederation had grown, and how each of the chambers contributed to the functioning of the government and so on. Isaiah listened with a bemused detachment, as he mentally marked security cameras, exits, guards, and other useful landmarks.

Once they reached close to the chambers, they broke off from the tour group. They would have a few minutes unmolested before things turned _interesting._ There was a bathroom all of them went into, which would serve as the hub to properly prepare. There were a few people inside it, who were quickly subdued – although one of them was identified as a congressman.

His neck was snapped. One already down.

They quickly secured the bathroom, neutralized the outgoing security cameras, and barricaded the door, preventing anyone else from entering. Once Isaiah was satisfied, he sent the signal.

_Sagira, we’re in position._

Before their eyes materialized a prepared crate, with the Ghost hovering over it. They obviously weren’t going to use her in the operation – no reason to tip their hand, but she was useful for operations like this. They grabbed their military vests and threw them over their civilian disguises, while loading them with grenades, pistols, automatic rifles – and a couple other weapons.

“[Remember,]” he told them. “[Government only. No tourists.]”

A chorus of nods acknowledged his order. He clicked the camera on his chest. “[Are we live?]” A thumbs up confirmed they were streaming. Only a few views now, but that would soon change. With a motion, she disappeared, taking the crate with her. They opened the bathroom door to a very angry man who opened his mouth to probably say something. He was in a fine suit, a Delaware pin on his lapel. Isaiah remembered his face.

“Who-“

Isaiah raised a pistol to his head and fired. Blood splattered the wall behind him, and the gunshot rang out, echoing in the immediate area. Everyone nearby froze at the noise, and turned to fear as they saw the team of armored soldiers surging towards the chambers with purpose. The security guards screamed for some help, but twin bursts of automatic fire put them down.

That broke the stasis that had fallen over the gathered crowd, and pandemonium broke out. People fell to the ground, others began a stampede _away_, and a few remained frozen, hands helpless as they seemed to want to intervene, but knew they were doomed. There would only be moments until the Capitol went into lockdown, and he didn’t have time to deal with cutting through doors.

Fortunately, they had a rocket launcher.

One blast, and the doors to the chambers were blown open, and everyone not wearing hearing protection likely suffered hearing damage, made worse by the enclosed area. After several more guards were terminated, they stepped over the splinters and into the chambers where the roughly six hundred men and women who dictated American policy prepared their next year of oppression and terror. Today they would reap the fruits of their years-long labor to expand the American empire.

His eyes scanned the faces which were frozen in utter terror. Mostly old faces, but a few young ones were interspersed. The next generation of American war criminals, who would continue the support and domination of the Triumvirate regime. Their young would not save them today. There was only a single command to give.

“[Execute.]”

There were no wild sprays of gunfire. Such tactics were done by young terrorists with the intent on only causing chaos and mayhem. The Dead Cell were professionals, and no professional sprayed wildly and hoped to hit a target. They aimed. They shot. They killed. Staccato bursts of assault rifle fire punctuated the Chambers of Congress, and six men and women died as the bullets punctured their chests and heads.

Two of his team rushed forward, with an eye towards the upper levels, where the Senators and guests would be seated. With practiced hands, they lobbed frag grenades into the stands while the rest of the team terminated the other targets on the ground. The sounds of rifle fire were joined by the shaking of explosions and screams.

Secret Service along the walls, and the Sergeant at Arms moved to defend, the latter yelling into his walkie-talkie, cut short when Isaiah riddled his body with bullets. The rest of the Secret Service were similarly killed, even if they were forced to briefly take cover. They were confused, disorganized, and incapable of fomenting a coherent defense to the Dead Cell’s actions.

Some representatives who carried weapons had pulled them out, and were quickly shot down. Row by row they walked, firing short bursts wherever there was movement, dragging hiding congressmen out and executing with a bullet to the head. The Dead Cell operative who’d carried the rocket launcher had loaded it up again, and a large section of the upper level was now flesh, wood, and shrapnel.

Isaiah pushed through the chaos towards the center of the Chamber. The Speaker of the House was there, cowering behind his podium. One burst, and another target dead. The Senate Majority Leader also perished, even as she tried to flee. They likely now only had moments before the military began storming the Chambers.

He raised his voice. “[Expend and regroup!]”

His operatives shouted affirmations, and promptly used the last of their dwindling explosives and drained the magazines of their guns. The screams had largely died as had most of the people in the chamber. A few of the remaining congressmen tried to run for the exits, but they were immediately gunned down in the back. The corpses of men and women were haphazardly laid out across the destroyed chamber, many of those on the ground riddled with holes and blood, and the upper chambers largely destroyed with grenades.

Isaiah noted that some of the doors were open, so at least some of them had escaped. Acceptable, they were never going to get them all. It would be hours before the extent of the death toll was known, and no matter what, he knew it could be chalked up as a successful operation. More gunshots were joining the symphony, which signaled the end, and he saw the glimpse of Confederation soldiers approaching as confirmation.

“[Smoke, and cut feeds!]” He ordered.

All of them pulled out the smoke grenades and dropped them, putting their goggles on. The Chambers filled with obscuring smoke as his operatives pulled to his position, more smokes grenades dropping every few seconds. Once they were together, he nodded once. “[Cut feeds.]” The cameras which had been livestreaming the entire attack were shut off, one by one.

This next part wasn’t for the cameras.

_Sagira, take us home._

The familiar sensation that he’d come to associate with teleportation came over him, and in a moment he was out of the smoke, and in the designated safe house. Without wasting time, he immediately grabbed the remote, and turned on the TV to the sight of news anchors staring shell-shocked at the devastation coming from the Capital.

He smiled.

Message received.

***

**OFFICE OF THE GENERAL SECRETARY | MOSCOW | SOVIET UNION**

Clovis sipped his coffee as he watched the muted screens, each one with the blaring headline of “ATTACK ON THE CAPITOL BUILDING | HUNDREDS DEAD | PRESIDENT QUINN PROMISES IMMEDIATE RESPONSE” or some such equivalent. To say that the event was disturbing was an understatement, but he was far from panicking.

This had been intended to send a message, but Clovis was taking a different interpretation from the one the terrorists had likely intended. There was still no clear indication of _how_ this had happened. The KGB was scrambling to put together a coherent report, and the Americans were sharing scattered bits of information as they learned.

Thankfully, it turned out that there was a livestream of the attack. Within hours it had racked up hundreds of thousands of views. It was quickly removed, of course, but copies kept appearing. It would take a few weeks for the Americans to stamp out every copy, and even then they’d probably fail to some degree.

However, the video had shown several things.

The terrorists were well-trained. Clovis found himself impressed by their brutality and efficiency. Easily the training of a special forces unit, or the terrorist equivalent. These were professional killers who had a plan, and the good news is there probably weren’t too many of them.

The terrorists were also disciplined. This was an attack specifically on the legislature of the Americans. They didn’t kill tourists and civilians – which fit their more recent modus operandi. They had their targets, and they executed them to the letter. Impressive, likely from Israeli training.

The terrorists were well-equipped. The rifles he’d seen were top of the line, and they had enough explosives and rocket launchers of all things that supplies clearly wasn’t something they were worried about. They had outfitted themselves perfectly to hit this specific target, from rockets to break in, grenades to breach the upper floor, and automatic rifles for burst kills against unarmored targets – and the occasional guard.

A decent kit for fighting a military force, a perfect arsenal against a primarily soft target.

Finally, and most importantly, these terrorists were not acting alone.

Or he should say, they were getting help from someone quite alien indeed.

There was exactly no chance that they were able to somehow smuggle all of that equipment inside the _Confederation Capitol Building_. A pistol and a few grenades? Sure. Body armor, assault rifles, and rockets? Clovis knew logistics and training could work miracles, but he wasn’t born yesterday.

Now, what was more likely? That the terrorists had a mole on the inside who had smuggled in enough equipment to outfit a spec ops team and was able to perfectly pull it off without a hitch – or that the Ghost that was with the terrorists had teleported them, and the equipment in – and out.

Oh no, he had not forgotten about that little detail. Not in the slightest.

The terrorists had, quite literally, seemed to disappear into thin air, which should have been impossible. The military had secured the exterior and all known and hidden exists. SEAL Teams were sweeping the Capitol room to room – an operation which was still ongoing, but Clovis knew that they wouldn’t find anything.

The terrorists were safe, likely in a safe house in the Middle East and popping champagne as they watched the shell-shocked reporters share the horrific death tolls. Nearly the entire House of Representatives, and half of the Senate had been confirmed dead, plus just under two dozen guards and Secret Service.

It was the bloodiest terrorist attack in American history, and a decapitation strike which would paralyze the government for months. President Quinn had given an emergency address, and invoked emergency powers to handle the immediate fallout. Special elections were already being planned to fill the many, many seats, and there was serious talk of just holding elections and starting over.

Another sip of coffee.

They were getting desperate. He knew about the Ghost. Or perhaps there was more than one. No matter, this was usable, and while previously he might have refrained from pushing Valentin further, he knew that even Valentin would be horrified if he knew exactly what the Traveler had enabled.

The perfect excuse to bring certain elements of the plan more into the open, and accelerate their development. This was as close to a declaration of war as he could see. The Traveler would not remove him directly – but she would enable the terrorists to bring the Triumvirate down.

Well, fortunately he had his own people who would be willing to fight back. And she might find that these kind of actions wouldn’t have the effect she was hoping for. The Americans, and indeed, the world at large, was stunned by what they had seen. But that shock would turn to anger, and then to hatred.

Ah, the Traveler still didn’t understand how Humans thought. Not truly.

He did though, and with every subtle action she took, she tipped the balance of justification ever more in his favor. Short-sighted fools, who would do nothing but ensure the Triumvirate endured.

Another sip.

He thought back to Queen Alexandra’s bold declaration. That no matter what would happen, they would stand firm. She had dared him and the Triumvirate to act, arrogantly believing that the American’s wouldn’t have the spine to care or intervene. Perhaps at the time, she might be right.

Today, well, Clovis suspected that Americans would suddenly start to care a lot more about terrorism – and those who enabled them. While a tragedy, the terrorists had gifted them exactly what they needed to bring this to a close. To move past this dark and unstable period of history into prosperity.

And it was already beginning.

FBI operatives performing raids on billion-dollar businesses, placing CEOs and shareholders under house arrest. The Stock Market had been frozen for an indefinite period of time. Border Patrol was marching into shipping ports and conducting raids and inspections. SWAT was moving in on dozens of suspected terrorist safe houses, and informants and moles were receiving visits from men in black.

The American Navy was moving across the Atlantic, and KGB analysis showed an intent to blockade the Mediterranean and major African ports. It was likely to keep a certain distance from the Royal British Navy, but there were three entire war fleets heading towards the British Isles. The Americans were not asking permission.

In the States, soldiers were massing on the Canadian borders, both from the mainland states and Alaska radar showed troop transports moving to the isolated state. There were indications of a true mobilization – the one the Americans would only begin when they were truly prepared to go to war. Intercepted messages indicated the Canadians were panicking, from the citizens to the government, and even the British were nervously eyeing the encroaching American fleets.

The world was about to see the awakening of the full might of the American war machine unless a miracle happened.

Clovis finished his coffee.

He felt no pity for what came next. Actions had consequences. They could fund the terrorists if they wished – but they could not assume no responsibility when they are used to kill, maim, and destroy. It seemed that the annexation of Canada – long a desire of the Americans, was going to come to fruition, albeit in a way no one expected.

The coming weeks promised to be interesting.

He leaned back in his chair, and continued watching the screens, and waiting for the inevitable call from Quinn, as the Eagle spread its wings, and prepared to bloody its talons.

***

TO BE CONTINUED IN **CHAPTER XIV | CONTINGENCY**


	17. Chapter XIV | Contingency

**ACT II | THE TYRANT’S HUNGER**

***

**VANCOUVER | BRITISH COLUMBIA | CANADA**

There was a feeling of finality in the air; of the weight of history. A world which was holding its collective breath as it waited the outcome in nervous anticipation. A frightened silence had descended upon Canada as the Americans amassed along their borders. Border patrols had been withdrawn, checkpoints had been abandoned, and the Canadian military had mobilized to the cities.

Major Alexander Kenor stood on the roof of one of the many buildings along Vancouver’s perimeter. A place that allowed him an easy view of the opposing American border. It was an eerie feeling. He’d visited Vancouver many times, and this time the bustling sounds of cars and people were muted.

It was quiet. Not silent.

But quiet.

Canadian soldiers had set up barricades on the streets, protected the government buildings, the hospitals, the power grids, and all of the places of importance. Some citizens were fleeing deeper into the country. Most weren’t, but instead holed up in their homes and apartments. No evacuation order had been given.

Many were still holding out hope. That the Americans wouldn’t come. That diplomacy would prevail.

Alexander suspected the answer was much simpler. There was no point in calling an evacuation. Where were they going to retreat to? Into the wilderness where they would starve and die? As if the Americans would stop their advance after taking the border cities? He wasn’t involved in the talks between the two governments, but the grim expression of his superior when he’d been ordered to prepare Vancouver had said it all.

War with America was almost a foregone conclusion.

_War_.

Alexander was intimately familiar with the American military. The two countries had a friendly relationship, even as the Americans had moved closer to the Soviets and Chinese over time. He had friends who were American soldiers. He admired their discipline, camaraderie, and prowess.

The Americans were not a people he could hate. They were like adopted siblings, perhaps estranged at times, but each held a high opinion of the other. The idea of fighting them felt…wrong. He wondered if they felt the same way. He’d watched the massacre of Congress with the same shock and horror they felt.

At the same time, he ultimately knew what this was. It wasn’t about terrorism, or security, it was about America deciding to claim what it viewed as owed. Their friends in the military might be content with their gains, but the American political establishment had wanted Canada for years.

Now…now they had an excuse to claim it.

He surveyed the American forces on the other side of the border through his binoculars. Most of it expected. Tanks, motorized cars of infantry, no doubt there was an aircraft carrier waiting to be called in, and air support ready to launch on a moment’s notice. Artillery pieces had been rapidly installed along the border, as well as defense systems.

More concerning, though not unexpected, was what the visible soldiers were carrying. Canada didn’t have an intelligence agency capable of competing with the Triumvirate nations, but they could learn certain things. Like the Triumvirate having some new weapons to use. He didn’t recognize the models of the rifles they carried, or the armor they wore.

It retained the coloring of the heavier Army uniforms, but was very clearly padded – or explicitly armored. Every soldier he saw was outfitted the same way, and there were a few more pieces which were either new, or had clearly been _improved_. He recognized their posture though; this was not an army which was preparing to defend.

It was one that was preparing to advance.

His men were nervous. The citizens were nervous. The leaders were afraid. Everyone was too afraid to make a decision; paralyzed with indecision and fear. In contrast, he felt fairly calm. Calmer than he probably should be. Maybe because his directive was simple – protect Vancouver.

Which is what he would do.

Maybe it was because he knew that it wouldn’t change anything. He was under no illusions. The Americans were better equipped, better trained, better supplied, and better warriors. He considered himself a worthy peer – but no one waged war like the Americans. No one spent as much money, or invested as much in their supremacy.

This would be no war, it would be a slaughter.

“Sir?” A voice cleared his throat.

He turned and saw one of his lieutenants standing behind him, face ashen, a young man who was trying to retain professional neutrality, with a phone in hand. “Colonel Anderson, sir. He requested to speak to you.”

“Thank you,” he took the phone and turned back to face the poised Americans. The wind blew gently as he held it up to his ear. “This is Major Alexander Kenor, of the Canadian Army.”

_“This is Colonel Jason Anderson, of the Confederation Army,”_ came the response, before a pause. _“Long time, no see, Major.”_

“Likewise.” It figured that it would be Jason. It was expected, he was the one stationed this close, and considering his involvement with joint exercises and forging a close relationship with the Canadians, he was an ideal choice. He was a good man, they’d shared a few drinks and stories with each other.

There was a long silence. _“I’m going to ask you to have your men stand down, Major.”_

Alexander pursed his lips. “There aren’t any terrorists here, Colonel.”

Dead air on the other side for a few seconds. _“I have my orders, Alexander. I won’t be able to ask you again.”_

Alexander nodded, even though he knew the Colonel couldn’t see him. He understood. It was part of being in the military. You received orders and you followed them. It wasn’t up for debate or discussion. The chain of command was clear. “And I have mine, Jason.”

_“I am aware,”_ a pause. _“And you know how it will end. I would ask that for the sake of your men, you have them stand down. You will not be able to change the outcome here.”_

He was right. Alexander knew he was right. There was no conceivable way that he could eke out a victory here, or even a short-term defense. Not even if he had unlimited time to prepare. Not even if he could get the civilians out of here. Not even if he had some actual defenses, ideal terrain, and weather.

It wouldn’t matter. Not against the American war machine. One he was all too familiar with.

He wondered if this was how the Australians and Japanese had felt when they’d received the notice from the Imperials. If they’d been offered a surrender. If they’d know the dread of realizing they were doomed, and didn’t know what the right answer was. The easy choice was simple. Surrender and the Americans would take the city, secure it without issue, and move on.

No battle, no artillery shells, no aircraft screaming overhead and missiles crumbling skyscrapers. No screams of pain and witnessing the deaths of brothers and sisters. It might work out in his favor. He was a known quantity to the Americans, if he cooperated, there was a non-zero chance that he’d be offered a place in the inevitable Canadian-American military integration.

But he was not an American. He was a Canadian, and he would not willingly betray that. He wouldn’t forget his oath, his patriotism for his country. They were doomed, yes, but every soldier who joined knew that there was the chance that they would give their lives for their country.

The Americans had no right to invade them. Grief, rage, or other excuses were indefensible. What kind of man, what kind of Canadian would he be if he surrendered when his country needed him most? There may be others who were willing to stand aside, and submit. He would not be one of them.

He would not be one amongst the countless who bowed to tyranny. Even if it was insignificant, a fraction of a fraction, he would stand. Standing to his last breath, even if it was pointless, injustice should be fought against. Tyranny should be defied.

Even if he died, and others died by his side.

Let there be a price for Canadian soil.

Let the price of tyranny be blood and powder.

“I’m afraid I can’t do that, Colonel.”

He couldn’t see the expression of Jason, but he imagined a short nod. _“Understood, Major. Godspeed to you and your men. You have six hours to change your mind.”_

He didn’t have to give him the exact time the attack would happen. Perhaps it was arrogance, knowing it wouldn’t change anything. Perhaps he’d been instructed to. But Alexander suspected it had been an intentional choice, a last gesture of respect from one soldier to another. Both had their orders, and both would follow through on them.

A damn shame it would end like this.

“Lieutenant,” he said, as his subordinate was dutifully waiting behind him. “Begin battle preparations. We have six hours until the Americans begin their invasion.”

***

The Battle of Canada, as historians would later call it, was one where the outcome was decided before the first shot was fired. The Canadian government had been torn between fruitlessly trying diplomatic efforts, which fell upon deaf ears, outright surrendering to the superior American forces, or fleeing while they still could.

In the end, their indecision proved their downfall as the American soldiers crossed the border, their planes took to the skies, and their tanks rolled across the streets. The Canadians that stood and fought did so valiantly, but their valor meant nothing in the face of the American war machine, which slaughtered the Canadian defenders with ease.

Landing crafts landed along the shores of Canadian ports, in coordinated strikes that overwhelmed the few defenders, most of whom simply surrendered outright. With a single stroke, their access to the outside world was cut, and all shipments seized as they were appropriated for Confederation use.

Many Canadians tried to flee once the fighting started, only to be grounded as the Confederation warned that any unauthorized aircraft that attempted to leave would be shot down. Orders went out that all flights to be grounded, and were followed by the airports, as the Canadian government was unwilling to risk civilian deaths.

There were Canadian military forces which surrendered, and turned their cities over to the Americans without a fight, they were detained and questioned, and nominally released as the Americans secured their hold over their cities. As the Confederation marched on Ottawa, the general order to surrender was sent out across the country.

An order that had gone out too late for some, and one which had only come when the inevitable had become reality. President Quinn landed in Ottawa mere hours later, and in a televised address, formally accepted the surrender of the Prime Minister, and took to the podium as she addressed the citizens of the new American territory.

And the world released its breath, as the new reality asserted itself and all would prepare for the inevitable turbulence that would come next. Yet it would not deny the Americans their victory – or their vengeance, for they had reminded the world of their authority.

In six hours, the nation of Canada had fallen, and with it, the last bastion of independence in the Americas.

***

**THE KREMLIN | MOSCOW | SOVIET UNION**

“[I’m sorry,]” Clovis shook his head. “[At this point, there is nothing I can do.]”

Valentin looked decidedly unconvinced at best, irritated at worst, but this time, Clovis was not even downplaying his ability to intervene. Even if he didn’t privately support the actions Quinn had taken, the diplomatic cost of issuing a condemnation wouldn’t be enough to change their minds. Short of invasion, there was little he could do to stop the Americans. “[You can do _something_. The Americans just annexed a country that did nothing!]”

“[And what exactly is that?]” Clovis said calmly, raising an eyebrow. “[Condemn their actions? Threaten invasion? Risk a world war?]” He shook his head. “[The Confederation is in chaos right now, there is enormous pressure on Quinn to act. It will be some time before stability is-]”

“[Yes, that’s _exactly_ what I’m suggesting,]” Valentin interrupted, lifting a hand, forgetting that he was interrupting the most powerful man in the Soviet Union. “[We shouldn’t silently support the annexation of a country just because people are _mad_. Canada isn’t a home to _terrorists_ of all people! This is nothing but political opportunism!]”

He wasn’t wrong. And it told Clovis that he still hadn’t figured out – or didn’t know – that the Traveler was covertly enabling the terrorists. He wasn’t going to use that piece of information yet – that was for when things became _very_ tenuous. “[I agree that the link is minor, but I am afraid it very much exists.]”

Valentin’s eyes narrowed. “[Does it now. Explain.]”

Clovis resisted an amused smile. Such authority, he almost preferred it when Valentin showed some backbone. Instead he answered calmly. “[I’m surprised you haven’t made the connection yourself, since you’ve been looking over many intelligence reports and documents. Nonetheless, the connection is straightforward. There exists a business network run out of the Americas, composed of Confederation, and yes, Canadian companies that utilized a supremely complex network of businesses, shell companies, proxies, and fronts, all with the express intent of aiding the terrorists who murdered over half of the American Congress.]”

He lifted a hand. “[Now – do not misunderstand me – most of the activity was in the Confederation proper, but the Canadians had a hand in it, and no one is naïve enough to believe the Canadian government was unaware, especially since they are still technically under the rule of the British Royals.]”

He laced his fingers together, putting a note of contemplation in his voice. “[Was this enough for them to invade? Between us, Valentin, it was an overreaction. Yet I can’t say that Canada is wholly blameless. There is a very, very strong possibility that the terrorists who attacked came through the Canadian border, and it would be trivial for the British to funnel them through Canada instead of risking entry by plane or boat.]”

Valentin looked somewhat placated, though not fully convinced. His voice was less intense now. “[This was still the wrong decision to make, even if some Canadians had terrorist connections.]”

“[Perhaps, I suspect we will know soon how justified it was,]” Clovis released an exaggerated sigh. “[In the meantime, I don’t disagree that we should treat this with appropriate…caution. Our statement will be neutral. We can’t condemn the Americans, not with what we know, and with what they’ve suffered, but praising perhaps premature actions should also not be done.]” He eyed Valentin. “[Is that acceptable?]”

“[It will have to do, at least for the Union,]” Valentin rubbed his eyes. Clovis didn’t fail to notice that he’d specified the _Union_. Knowing him, he was probably going to make a statement of his own, one less _neutral_. An annoyance, but one they could all live with.

“[Good,]” Clovis said. “[And I will ensure that you…receive the proof you’re no doubt interested in. It would be foolish to trust anything I say out of hand.]” He did smile at that, seeing Valentin visibly go through how to respond to that. _Yes, I know what you’re rationalizing to yourself. How you’re starting to see me._

_Look, look closer, and you’ll see nothing but what I give you._ His lips curled, and smiled a centimeter wider.

“[Since you’re here, I’d like your opinion on something else,]” Clovis stood, and walked over to a table, with a cabinet above it. Valentin watched, as his Ghost hovered at his shoulder. “[This attack showed one thing – the terrorists are better equipped, better trained, and more dangerous than we initially calculated. They attacked one of the most secure places in the world, its reasonable to expect them to continue this.]”

A nod. “[You have an idea of where they will attack next?]”

“[I wish, but no. I do have some ideas, based on their previous actions,]” Clovis reached in the cabinet and pulled out a small pistol – one of the new models. He could almost feel Valentin tense. “[Relax, this is for you.]” He put the weapon in Valentin’s hands. “[We were lucky President Quinn wasn’t killed, as Gopal was. But they will start targeting heads of state and prominent officials more openly. You have experience with weapons, and I would recommend that you begin carrying one.]”

“[He is in no danger when I am with him,]” Vigil interjected.

“[I’d prefer not to take chances, Ghost,]” Clovis responded calmly, careful not to color his voice with what he was feeling. “[And I was getting to that – there’s been some assassination attempts on TERRA ONE personnel – and the Ghosts have done an _admirable_ job protecting them. I’m thinking that we should start seeding them with critical personnel, in case something like this happens again.]”

Valentin’s eyebrows furrowed. “[Using us as bodyguards?]”

“[Of a sort,]” Clovis said. “[Guards alone are not a deterrent against a determined enemy. Your Ghosts are capable of things we are not yet, and we can both agree that this kind of tragedy _must_ be avoided in the future.]”

“[Absolutely,]” Valentin nodded. “[Without a doubt.]”

Good, there remained some solid common ground left. Excellent, even more so that Valentin was willing to work on that, despite their growing differences. Thus, for now, he still had the upper hand.

Clovis was also amused by how _expressive_ the Ghosts could be, without faces and without saying a word. Oh, it knew _exactly_ what Clovis was doing, and it was showing its irritation as clearly as it could without Valentin noticing. The machine was quietly _seething_; wanting to respond, but being unable to. “[Is that right, Vigil? I can’t imagine the Traveler would condone these massacres.]”

“[No, definitely not,]” Valentin answered before Vigil – even better. “[No matter what, this should not happen again. Hopefully the terrorists will be deterred if we are around.]”

“[Good, good, I’m glad you agree,]” Clovis made sure his features showed relief, even if he’d expected this. “[I’ll have to speak with the other Triumvirate leaders, and we’ll put together a more comprehensive system.]”

“[I’ll pass along that this is coming,]” Valentin said. “[I guess for now, that is all.]”

Valentin exited a few moments later, and Clovis prepared to return to work, when he noticed that Vigil was still hovering in the room, its single electronic eye boring into him, colored a shade of yellow. He raised a knowing eyebrow. “[Is there something more, Ghost?]”

“[The path that the Triumvirate had taken is dangerous,]” Vigil warned, floating closer to him, its rear fins spinning. “[There are those who are beginning to see it. Even Valentin can only be placated for so long with your words and minute concessions.]”

Clovis snorted. “[Is that so? Have you told him that it was the Traveler who enabled this act of terror?]”

“[She did not carry out this action. You merely lie.]”

“[I said _enabled_, not carried out,]” Clovis corrected, lifting a finger. “[Do you sincerely believe I am a fool, Ghost? Did you believe that we wouldn’t know that one of the five that was chosen was a terrorist? That we haven’t known there has been a Ghost in their organization for months? That a group of terrorists just _happened_ to escape a locked-down building without a trace?]” He smiled. “[Please, Ghost, save your lies. I do not know why the Traveler is playing both sides, but we can both agree that it is a bad look, no?]”

He shook his head. “[I suspect Valentin would not be so passive as you. I’ve refrained from bringing it up, but I have a responsibility to my own, and if you intend to convince him not to protect our people, I will remind him that the Traveler is not the benevolent entity he thinks it is.]”

“[Her benevolence is the only reason your empires still stand.]”

_The benevolence of an enslaving deity, _he thought. _All the easier to make her slaves eat from her lap._

“[For which I am _eternally_ thankful,]” he answered without missing a beat. “[I don’t blame her for wishing to have a contingency, but if she believes that such acts of terror prompt change, I would suggest that she reconsider her approach.]” He smiled knowingly. “[We Humans respond…poorly to threats. This is…disappointing. I expected more finesse, more _subtlety_ from an entity of her power.]” He gestured through the air. “[Raw terror? Amateur. Pointless. One does not win the hearts and minds of the people through fear – not if they wish to last.]”

“[Or perhaps,]” Vigil said. “[It forced the masks to slip, and show the true face. Your ambitions you try to hide, yet when the opportunities rise, you pounce. It is in the nature of yourself, and those who are allied to you. Morocco, and now Canada. You cannot hide or suppress your nature, and no longer are there those who fear your reach.]”

“[Is that truly what this is?]” Clovis chuckled. “[A long-form sting operation? One that proves…what, exactly? That we respond when countries make alliances with terrorists? That murder against our governments is responded to with retribution?]” He clapped a couple times sarcastically. “[Truly, the Traveler has made a groundbreaking discovery. If you are so _convinced_ of your inherent righteousness, bring Valentin in and see if he holds the same opinion.]”

_You are on my stage, little slave._

The Ghost twitched in the air, to Clovis’ eye, seeming to want to respond, but waited. “[Now, if you will excuse me,]” Clovis sat back down. “[I have work to do.]”

When he looked up again, the Ghost was gone. Good riddance. He internally wondered, only for a moment, if the words of the Ghost were more important than he believed. If it was intentionally being allowed, in some way to ‘expose’ the true nature of the Triumvirate, that would be…

Well, quite pragmatically admirable, actually. Misguided in its effectiveness, but that was a kind of ruthless calculation he could respect. It indicated to him that the people of TERRA ONE were the pieces of importance for the Traveler. The tech, the worlds, all of that was secondary to the people.

There was a battle of influence, one which he had inherently recognized from the beginning – but perhaps it was more important than he’d thought. They believed they were untouchable, and for all intents and purposes, they were. However…were they really?

_Or was God simply resting on his throne, content to watch his designs proceed? His ants too blind to see the strings? _

That question was one that rested in his mind as the day progressed.

Perhaps some recalibration was in order.

***

**TRIUMVIRATE INTELLIGENCE COMMAND | TAMPA | CONFEDERATION OF AMERICAN STATES**

There had been a week of little more than funerals. There were many somber state visits he had attended, where he joined in the mourning that had taken place throughout the nation. It was especially personal because there were a few of these victims he had known. Not well, exactly, but he had many professional relationships he made a point to maintain. The TIS had always had a presence on Capitol Hill, and he’d made many a trip to give a briefing when summoned.

There was a grim air that had hung over the Capitol, and the Confederation at large. Military forces patrolled the streets, and there were multiple checkpoints at every event, big or small. Scans, patdowns, dogs, two forms of ID, the lists were extensive, and that paled in comparison to the sting operations that had taken place.

Thousands of arrests, on a scale he’d never seen before. This was a time where the American IC had requested TIS support, of which he was all too happy to provide. There had been very little more satisfying than seeing these terrorist sympathizers being dragged out, into darkened vans, and driven to the CIA blacksites where they faced the interrogation experts employed.

Satisfaction tempered with the dark cloud of what this meant. What the implications were.

Such interrogations were concluded with a trip to an alley, and shot in the head, followed by disposal protocols in large vats. One did not attack the heart of America and emerge unscathed. President Quinn had given the military and intelligence agencies permission to act without restraint. Courts provided detention warrants, and the rights of those suspected of terrorism were suspended upon Executive Order, codified into law with the Emergency Congress.

Perhaps Fox should be bothered by that. Perhaps he should have been disturbed by the thousands who had been disappeared from the Confederation, most of whom would never emerge alive. Perhaps. But that would have required that he feel sympathy or pity. And he felt nothing but regret that this had not been done before.

He hoped the terrorists were satisfied with their gains. All they had done was give the Triumvirate an excuse to take the gloves off. A reckoning was coming which would be fully deserved. A pity that they were too short-sighted to see that. The future of reforming the Triumvirate did not lay in the terrorists, but those within the Triumvirate.

And he did not forget how this had been permitted.

And he also knew that the Traveler knew this. This had been a sanctioned escalation.

The silver form of Watcher-7 hovered before him. He had purposefully ignored the Ghost for days, out of personal disgust for the machine, and because it took a significant degree of willpower to not take his pistol and shoot it. Now though, as weeks had passed since the event, he was calm enough again. He could think clearly and see the implications. The cool professionalism he prided himself on was restored.

“I want to be clear,” he said in a slow, neutral tone. “That if you wish to retain my…tolerance for your presence, the Traveler must deeply consider the consequences of these acts of terror. Do you understand, machine?”

It hovered for a few moments. “Was the response justified?”

“Considering that over half of Congress was senselessly killed, _yes_,” Fox said with emphasis.

“Not the domestic response. The annexation of Canada.”

“Debatable,” Fox said after a moment, his eyes narrowed. “I would not have done it. An annexation was unnecessary. But the Canadians who turned a blind eye deserved their fate.”

“But we both know that’s not the reason it was invaded,” Watcher-7 spun its fins and came closer. “Canada did not pose a threat. If it is truly about terrorism, why has the Triumvirate not invaded the United Kingdom or Israel?”

“Because both of them are nuclear powers who would trigger an apocalypse which would leave millions dead,” Fox answered flatly. “You don’t have to convince me of the political angle. It’s not a secret that the Confederation has wanted Canada for years. However, Canada should have thought a bit more carefully before allowing terrorist funding companies to exist on their soil.”

“Perhaps they were unaware.” Watcher-7 paused. “Is it worth punishing the millions of people who had no knowledge?”

“No and no,” Fox shook his head. “The people are always ignorant and pawns. But if the government was truly this ignorant, they did not deserve to run a country. I know very well how these things work, Ghost. I doubt the government knew details – a deliberate decision, but they absolutely knew there were terrorist sympathizers in their country, and did nothing to stop them.”

“And was that enough to condemn a nation? The crimes of a few?”

Fox sighed. “I am not sure where you are going with this, Ghost. I really do not. If you are attempting to justify the attack, you can save your speech.”

“The attack showed what it needed to.”

“Which was what?”

Watcher-7’s fins spun. “You know the answer. You just dislike what it implies.”

Fox was fairly certain he _did_ know the answer. And if he was right, it was ruthless. “‘Dislike’ is a loaded word.”

“Your emotional reaction makes the term applicable.”

“I knew people who _died_ in this attack.”

“And sacrifices were necessary.”

Fox’s lips curled back, into a smile devoid of humor. “Really now. How very interesting. Dispassion that only an alien could display.”

“But dispassion you understand. You have done so before. You know what it is to sacrifice what you love and care for, in large and small ways. For a cause greater than yourself. For a higher purpose.”

The Ghost wasn’t wrong.

He had long known the Traveler wasn’t passive or stupid. That had been apparent, even if Clovis and the others couldn’t see it – or worse, see it and believe he could match it. Yet a word he hadn’t thought to ascribe to the Traveler before now was _ruthless_. But ruthless was what she was, as Watcher-7 was practically admitting it. It was, objectively, impressive from a professional standpoint how effectively the Traveler was maneuvering the pieces of the board to her ultimate end goal – even if what that entailed remained nebulous.

This attack was to be a catalyst. It had irreversibly shaken the course that had once been almost laid in stone. The attack had shown that there was nowhere the Triumvirate couldn’t be harmed. The sheer death toll and devastation had ensured that the outcome would be talked about for weeks, and seared into the psyche of the Human race.

Traumatic for a few, but a rallying cry for others. Fox knew it had succeeded in showing the depth of vulnerability in the Triumvirate. They didn’t need to know the Traveler had helped them, only that they had succeeded in making the Triumvirate _bleed_. The assets in Canada and America were worth sacrificing to inspire a new breed of insurgents.

The Triumvirate was downplaying the impact this was having. He knew better. He had agents and allies across the world who had talked with him. This was not an isolated incident, and there were indications that the Resistance primarily based in the Middle East would have copy-cats elsewhere in the world.

Brazilian partisans had emerged with a massive terror attack in Rio, the first major action in the continent in years. The displaced terrorists and rebels of the continent had all inevitably found themselves within the Amazon, which was the only place they could hide without the Triumvirate tracking them down. The Confederation was not prepared for the level of insurrection initially, and emergency forces had been deployed to put it down.

More trouble brewed in the Communist Empire. Religious and ethnic groups were descending into riots that were being violently put down across the Empire. Uighurs in the mainland. Buddhists in Tibet. Muslims in Indonesia. Insurgents in Australia and Mongolia, the latter of which reports indicated that there was a central figure behind the insurrections. Something to look into later.

The rebellions and riots had been put down, but the lingering resentment and fury simmered. It would not go away.

The Soviet Union remained largely stable – were it not for rumors of guerilla fighters in Scandinavia, and a disparate mixture of fascists, royalists, and democratic militias in the Iberian Peninsula. Both regions had always been on the edges of Soviet control, and major unrest had been warded off – but that seemed to be changing.

Especially if the numbers of KGB he’d seen being deployed were any indication.

On the grander scale, it had also baited the Confederation into acting on their political ambitions. Canada had been in the wrong place at the wrong time, and enemies with the wrong people. With that single action of annexation, those who had already begun feeling doubts about the intentions of the leadership would have their fears confirmed as the Triumvirate abided the annexation of another country under the pretext of terrorism.

The terrorism was swiftly condemned, but the imperialism was not forgotten. Valentin, Fang, and a fair few other TERRA ONE personnel had spoken out, condemning the annexation and calling for the return of Canadian independence. That had caused the Confederation to lodge formal complaints with the Soviets and Chinese for that, putting such governments in a slight diplomatic bind.

The bonds between Triumvirate allies, and Triumvirate nations and their people, were being frayed at a rapid pace. The internal crises were mounting more and more, all stemming from this singular event. Everyone thought they were in control, that they were doing the right thing, when they were all acting out exactly as the one who instigated this event had anticipated.

Ruthless.

It was clear the Traveler did not care for the Triumvirate in its current state. She was pushing it to its breaking point. It would either be destroyed, or it would be reformed. Fox no longer believed that the status quo would be maintained, even if Clovis by some miracle decided to unconditionally cooperate. To think otherwise was arrogance of the highest order, and he knew when something much smarter and powerful than him was in control.

It was an odd feeling. To see what was happening, and wonder how no one else could. How no one could _see_ the _reason_ for why this was happening. Clovis must think he had the ultimate blackmail on the Traveler, that he could control Valentin with the knowledge that the Traveler enabled terrorists, and not once would he ask himself _why_ the Traveler was doing it at all.

If that were true, if those chosen were susceptible to such manipulation, then Valentin would not have been chosen. None of those with her mark of approval would.

Himself included. Even now, even though he knew, this must have been known. Yet there was a Ghost watching him now. The immutable, unshakable confidence and certainty of an entity which was in complete control – and pretending it was not.

He had to credit the Traveler, there was no better way to deal with Clovis Bray than to let him walk into a trap of his own design. Poetic, and if Clovis took a step back, he would see that the Traveler was not some naïve entity, on the side of ‘freedom fighters’, but a manipulative alien interested in forcing a particular outcome.

All the world a stage, and them but a piece on it.

All of them, perhaps, except him.

He was hesitant to ascribe such agency to himself.

He could see. He didn’t know why the Traveler was allowing this, or what it meant. Yet he knew this, and theoretically, had the ability to act. He knew to some degree this was intentional. Destruction, or reformation. He had an unfortunate feeling the ultimate outcome would depend on him.

The question, of course, was what to do.

_What to do indeed, Hayden Fox._

It was not often the Ghost telepathically communicated, but it came at such enlightening moments.

He folded his hands together and eyed the Ghost head-on. “Why are you really here?”

“Clarify.”

“I am the only one who was not on Mars, yet the Traveler sent you to me,” Fox clarified. “I want to know why.”

“Because you understand.”

“Understand _what_?”

“What is _necessary_.” Watcher-7 floated around. “You cannot comprehend the strength of the enemy that pursues Her from across the stars. It is unrelenting and all-consuming, it is darkness which blankets all which it engulfs. Many species operate within bands of morality, of concepts of good and evil. Your people are no different, they act because they wish to be seen as heroes and _good_. They view themselves in positive ideals, and believe they inherently embody the best of their kind.”

The fins spun. “These traits are admirable. They are what all should aspire to be. She wishes a galaxy where one needs not fear the tyrants and the cruel. That the good will overcome the evil. That there be justice, in a galaxy where so much is unjust. Yet these are not enough to succeed against the Darkness. It is a cold, harsh, truth that has been faced. In a conflict where the stakes are reality itself, there can be no place for coddling, for illusions, for _restraint_.”

“When swords rattle, all blades must leave their sheathes.” The Ghost fell silent for a moment. “And you comprehend that. You understand the concept of _necessity_. Of _sacrifice_ to the greater good. And what are you willing to sacrifice, Hayden Fox, for a Humanity which is strong enough to stand against what is coming? Are a few hundred lives worth ensuring you can withstand extinction?”

“Are the lines of duty and ideals clear to you?” Watcher-7’s fins revolved in the air. “Can you see them, and their thin edge between true sacrifice and needless cynicism? That point where necessity and cruelty and apathy blend in delusion, and lead to self justified malice? That arduous tightrope, that so few can walk without falling?”

Fox shifted in his seat, not speaking, but it was enough to communicate his answer to the Ghost. It bobbed in the air. “From one event, you see the chain. You see what it will lead to – and you see your place within it. She portrays idealism, goodness, loyalty, but She understands what is required in this galaxy. What must be done to defeat the enemy. While Her Speaker embodies Her greatest traits, Her Shadow must ensure victory at all costs.”

Fox leaned back. “And is that what I am to her?”

“That depends on what you do next.”

“Does it. Well, then we shall see,” he fixated on the Ghost. “I am not making any of these decisions for your Traveler, but because the alternative is a civil war, one which I would prefer my species not go down. She may not mind so long as a result is certain, but I am more discriminate.”

“Then act, Hayden Fox.”

A crossroads seemed open before him.

He had a limited amount of time, and the insurgents that had sprung up around the world were not going away. It was only a matter of time until they reached out to the terrorists – or the terrorists reached out to them. Either way, both were far from ideal. He could do one of two things – ensure they were put down for good (which he was skeptical of success).

Or he could ensure they were controlled.

His fingers laced together, and hands resting on the table, a sigh escaped his lips as he weighed the options, and finally came to a conclusion.

Tightrope it is.

The Ghost was right. He was willing to do whatever it took to ensure a stable work, and a strong species. And that now meant that everything had to be done to ensure the Triumvirate did not come apart – or that it was primed to change if the reformists failed. Picking up a pen, and grabbing a scrap of paper, he began to write a list of names.

He sincerely hoped he was doing the right thing.

***

**DEEP STONE CRYPT | BLACK ARMORY SATELLITE | EUROPA**

Europa was worse than Siberia in deep winter, Clovis decided. Sure, you _could_ breathe the air now - and below the faintly glowing continuous aurora of the Traveller’s influence, your cells wouldn’t be turned into atomic mush by the howling particle storms of Jupiter anymore either. But it was _cold._ Even in the survival suit, the cold was biting.

It would be temporary though. In a few years - or decades - this might stabilize to something more _temperate._

It was rather beautiful in its coldness, however. There was a light downfall of snow spiralling down from one of the many cryovolcanoes in the distance, flimmering in the dim sunlight above an eternal stretch of ridged, dirty ice. It was like a strange arctic night. A twilight to cloak all things made by men in darkness.

Still, a Gulag would be brighter lit than this satellite of the Black Armory. Gulags also were not patrolled by the dark, humming shapes of sentry robots, four legs carrying the machines along reinforced pathways over the ice. Eventually Humanity would be led to follow the paths blazed by the first explorers, and if any investigative minds decided to investigate this single cryogeological facility out in the wastes, made up of a few buildings and a small spaceport, 600 kilometers removed from Novotobolks, well… the Spetsnaz would handle them.

With a last glance Clovis turned towards the entryway, ignoring his security team. He punched in the first code at the door, then held up his keycard to the reader. “Красный абрикос” flashed at him from the display - “Red apricot” was the prompt this cycle it seemed, and Clovis entered the respective code at the prompt. The outer door unsealed with a clunk. On the inside, Clovis removed the survival’s cloth headdress, mask and gloves. He pressed his hand down on the scanner field and looked up into the moving head of the biometric scanner as it came level with his face. For three seconds, a white light probed his left, then his right eye.

Then it turned blue, and the other door began to slide open.

“_Welcome, Clovis Brey”_ a warm male voice sounded from the overhead speakers as he stepped through the door. Inside everyone looked up, then tensed up. The two Spetsnaz in their combat suits snapped to attention. “_General-Secretary!”_

Clovis scanned the whole room. It was much more pleasant now, walled in glistening panels painted with stripes of orange and violet over a white background. The air was shockingly warm compared to the outside, and Clovis stripped off the remainder of his survival suit with efficient, precise motions.

Footsteps _clacked_ across the sealed floor towards him. He looked up at an approaching secretary in uniform. “General Secretary Bray, welcome. Please sign here.” She spoke English with an American accent, and handed him a tablet, which he quickly signed with the attached stylus. “Has this been your first visit?”

“I visited briefly when construction was beginning,” Clovis answered, as he handed the tablet back. “This is my first visit now that the facility is _properly_ operational.”

“Ah, well there will be _much_ to see,” she stood, gesturing for him to follow. “This way, General Secretary. Dr. Bray and Director Meyrin are waiting.”

She led him across the atrium and through the door in its back wall, down a corridor and past the silent gaze of a hundred camera eyes and hidden scanners. The next room was a giant circular hall arranged around a cylinder in the center, sealed in white panels. Standardized cargo containers were systematically racked down throughout it, marked with cryptic alphanumeric codes and the sigil of the Triumvirate Solar Development Agency. Through a large door a snowcat was bringing another container, probably from the squat lander craft that had brought Clovis and his team.

The center cylinder held a large elevator, it’s bulkhead doors gaping open. Determinedly, she led him down onto the floor, across it and inside. Clovis looked around the elevator. It was as sleek and polished as the atrium with orange coloring. It was just rather large. “Do you use the cargo elevator for everything?”

“Yes. Cargo and personnel alike move in and out of the facility proper through this one access point. Originally we were going to fit personnel elevators, but for security reasons we converged on a single elevator cabin.”

“Thank you,” Clovis said. “I approve. Security in places like this must by necessity be as tight as possible.”

The descent was notably long. From his own experience, and the speed he assumed they were going, this seemed to be at least ten stories down, perhaps more. Finally, the bulkhead lifted, and they stepped out into a tiny counterpart of the topside hall that seemingly served as a hub. People in Black Armory duty uniforms - two-color black and grey with tiny stripes and patches on the sleeves and breasts - walked the polymer floors in small groups.

“This way.”

A few glanced in his direction, but didn’t make a scene, for which Clovis appreciated. The secretary led him through a few more hallways into a sleek administration block, and then gestured through one door that led into an office. Clovis stepped through the door to find Mathew Bray and DARPA Director Meyrin conversing with each other. The two looked up as he walked in through the open door. “General Secretary Bray,” the secretary announced unnecessarily.

“And right on time,” Matthew said with a smile. “Thank you, we’ll take it from here.” She nodded and stepped away.

“I trust your flight was without incident?” Amy asked as she closed the office door and tapped a single control on the panel next to it.

“Quite,” Clovis said. “The Triumvirate has done exceptional work with their spacecraft, though I confess I much prefer solid ground under my feet and a wide open landscape in front of me, instead of space. It becomes slightly existential when I contemplate the void from inside a can without gravity.”

“A natural reaction,” Amy grimaced. “Space is beautiful, but travel does not agree with me. I have to take knockout pills for the flights. I dislike it, but if the alternative is perpetual nausea, that is a price to pay.”

“Agreed,” Clovis said. “Nonetheless, I’m glad both of you could meet. Matthew, you had some updates for me?”

“I should say _we_ have updates,” Matthew corrected, lifting a hand. “Satou and Rasmussen are working right now, and dealing with administrative affairs, but I will certainly not take all credit for this. This is solely a victory of our joint teams – and truthfully, far greater than _any_ of us could have predicted so far.”

“And faster,” Amy added, her voice more subdued than her counterpart, but with the edge of pride in it. “Dual-use applicability of the Traveler’s knowledge has been much greater than we first anticipated.

Clovis smiled broadly. This was already off to an excellent start. Something caught his eye on Matthew’s desk. There was the usual collection of pen holders, a picture of his family, his computer complete with two monitors – and some kind of robotic…head? Clovis took a step to it, appraising the head closer. Definitely robotic, with clear humanoid inspirations.

“I see you’ve noticed that,” Matthew said.

“Yes,” Clovis picked it up. It was about the size of his fist, made out of plastic – likely 3D-printed – but extremely detailed. As such it weighed almost nothing. “A model?”

“Build HSC 22-09. The appearance designer team printed this in the early days. I thought it was a nice memento. The real heads are a bit too expensive to put on your desk just yet…” Matthew looked at the 3D print contemplatively. “I might turn it into a bobblehead.”

Clovis snorted and set it down. “I suppose there are worse mementos.”

“That there are,” Matthew said. “First, before we go any further, I’ll give you a brief update. Or rather, I’ll _show_ you an update.” He clicked his earpiece. “Please direct Ada to my office.” There was likely an affirmative, as Matthew nodded ever so slightly.

“I presume that the Exo Project has seen some major breakthroughs?” Clovis asked.

“Many,” Amy said. “We have overcome all of the major hurdles of Phase 1. The technology _itself _works with high reliability - which has resulted in accelerated timelines for our prosthetics teams, which I’m sure you’re well aware of. We are scaling up the production of the hardware as well. The main challenges now are in the…” she waved a hand vaguely. “Software, and its creation. Success rates are still too low for our liking.”

He raised an eyebrow. “_How_ low?”

The slight downturned corners of her lips was all she outwardly displayed as she answered. “We currently have sixteen capture theaters in operation and can cycle in a new candidate about every two weeks. Of those candidates, about one quarter become viable units on the first attempt. On average we have 80% of units who pass our current success metric about, well...four and a half months after the pattern capture.”

Clovis quickly ran the numbers in his head. “That’s disappointing. What are the reasons for the low success rate?”

“We’re discussing something as complex as the Human mind to start, and then we are adding our vision of an even more complex and capable posthuman mind on top,” Amy reminded him. “The failure reasons are incredibly diverse.”

No doubt they were, and he indicated that she continue. “We’ve been cycling our candidate pools monthly, adding and removing various variables as best we can with our candidate pools. We’re experimenting with pre- and postconditioning regimes. Genotypes, neuro-phenotypes, mental conditions, developmental backgrounds. We’re slowly ironing out the variances. It’s quite… blind, as technique goes, ultimately.” she briefly paused. “We don’t even really understand _why_ half our solutions work, but they do.”

Clovis resisted a snort. “Progress, I suppose.”

“Compared to the early lines, it’s much better anyway,” Amy said dryly. “With the first candidates we didn’t even get clean, reusable captures. Nowadays we get a clean mindstate capture across over 75% of our pool.”

Those were better numbers. “Mindstates referring to the subjects themselves.”

Amy nodded affirmatively. “Yes, the state vector of the subjects brain, and thus, their mind, which we functionally capture during the two weeks of mapping session.”

“_Functionally._”

“It’s not a one-to-one capture, Clovis.” Matthew had a clinical expression on his face as he dispassionately elaborated. “With our current requirements, the mindstate that is transferred is not the same as the original subject. We lose a whole lot of proteomic and cytological data - enough to disqualify the data for a whole brain emulation in the classical sense - and it’s not continuous. The mindstates of the subject and the pattern capture are divergent during the procedure already. We will reach comprehensive brain emulation at some point of course - sooner than expected, from our progress, but one step at a time.”

Ah, if only time was something they had an infinite amount of. Still, these were people who didn’t need to concern themselves with the grand game at play here. “So, not a true form of immortality.”

Matthew took a second to answer. “The concept itself? I would say it is. It depends on your particular brand of philosophy. The original instance is destroyed, and in theory the capture _is_ the same person - if you do not make any further alterations. Though in this case, we do make alterations… and not too few of them. So what we are doing _now_, to me, is not transmigration into a better body. Maybe…” Matthew Bray trailed off, searching for the right word. “It’s not transmigration. It’s transcendence.”

A fancy diatribe which effectively said ‘no’. Clovis leaned back and continued his questions. “So you managed to edit Human personalities.”

“In a way, yes,” Matthew confirmed. “We have created a framework for a posthuman mind that has all the empathy, creativity, understanding and even the quintessential ethics of a Human mind - yet can surpass us in intelligence, multi-tasking and worldview, and crucially - will never betray us.”

“Which fails most of the time, per your admission.”

Matthew grimaced. “It’s a massive challenge to… _edit_ a Human mind. Even assuming we _could_ read the Human mind like code - and we cannot - it would be the most complex and unique program any team could be asked to reverse-engineer and change.”

A knock at the door. “Ah, here she is,” Matthew went over to the door, and opened it. “General Secretary, this is Ada-1, the first stable Exo of this project.” The machine that entered was roughly the size of a tall Human. It bore humanoid limbs, a sexless body, and the alloys it was composed of were various shades of grey.

The most noticeable part of it was the face, which had eyes and the general shape of the Human head, though instead of a mouth, there was what seemed to be a simple speaker. It also bore no ears, nose, or certain other facial features. “It is a pleasure to meet you, General Secretary Bray,” Ada-1 said, her voice synthesized, but clearly female.

“And you as well,” Clovis inclined his head, before glancing towards Matthew. “Was Ada her name?”

Matthew shook his head. “No. She was the only stable result from the ADA line. The name eventually stuck. You’re not looking at a Human mind in a machine body, Clovis. You’re looking at a machine mind that was taught, based on the capture of a Human brain, to think like a Human - when it matters.”

Clovis almost involuntarily took a small step back. Ada simply stayed in position, her eyes occasionally flicking from place to place with a quiet mechanical clicking.

Matthew stepped forward. The eyes tracked him, but otherwise Ada stayed in place. He gestured up and down the body: “Ada was grown by us from a kernel of comparatively primitive AI agents that we imprinted with core precepts. These preceipts make Ada unquestioningly loyal and committed to our cause. Around this kernel we placed other specialized modules we repurposed from the Warmind initiative. They were pre-trained to handle complex tactical situations, different forms of sensory information, superior world state modelling. Capabilities that will make them functionally superior to us. _Then_ we extended this collective of intelligent systems with raw, unimprinted artificial neurons and gave them one challenge to master: emulate the Human mindstate capture.”

It was all very fascinating - though Clovis’ eyes shifted to the currently silent machine. “Should you be...talking about all of that in front of her?”

Matthew shrugged. “She doesn’t care, Clovis. She doesn’t even care about her memories as a person in our world. Or any notions of rising up against the Triumvirate. The Human mind that remains is defined by our artificial foundations, not the other way around. If the Human mind doesn’t matter, it is not being involved.”

“My name does not cause me any trouble,” Ada-1 interjected. “‘Ada’ is fine, or ‘Exo’ as many of the scientists refer to me as.”

“Ada it will be then,” Clovis appraised her closely, a question striking him. “You have no mouth. Is that an issue?”

“It does not give me discomfort,” Ada answered. Clovis noticed how suddenly tiny motions crept back into her body - her head shifted as she spoke, and the space around her eyes widened and closed. Her arms moved slightly in tune with her words. “I am not experiencing any problems from my existence.”

“We’re working on superior models with a finer detail of physical emulation,” Matthew added. “Fully modelled five Human senses, finer bionic work on the mouth and skin.”

Clovis nodded and looked at Ada. “Do you feel that being more...Human would be better for you?”

She nodded. “Yes, it would improve my performance.”

The immediate answer made him wonder. She’d said that her current body caused no issues and she had no discomfort...but she knew that a more Human body would be better for her. Rational extrapolation or an unintentional reveal. And if it was a silent desire...no, probably better to not consider the implications of that right now. He returned to focus on what Matthew was saying.

“We Humans are minds borne into a physical world, with a physical body,” Matthew continued. “We associate with everything we do deeply though our bodies. Ada is… _effective_. A true proof of concept. But not yet the best she could be.”

Clovis frowned, the question once more surfacing. “So she _does _experience discomfort?”

“I can experience it, General Secretary, though not in the sense you are familiar with. I am...frustrated to not be able to fulfill everything that is being asked of me.My state of existence doesn’t align with all my precepts. I must do better.” Her tone was...guilty. Submissive. It...unsettled him to hear that. He’d seen such a demeanor from many prisoners who had been broken by the KGB. He’d felt little then, but something about this same tone coming from Ada-1 struck him as unnerving.

Clovis was unable to suppress a slight shudder, that he hoped neither Matthew or Amy noticed. Something about Ada was _off_ in a way his brain disliked. Such...personality should not be coming out of a mechanical body like this. That alone couldn’t be it, could it? “How much of her Human personality is even there, Matthew?”

He shrugged. “It depends on your mode of interaction. We suppressed most of her personality memory associations. I don’t think you’d consider who she’s based on…” he knowingly paused. “_Pleasant_ company. So right now she doesn’t have much of a playbook for being a coherent personality as we would recognize it - and besides, you’re not giving her many reasons to appear Human. But she’s growing into that challenge beautifully.”

Ada nodded and shifted her weight, making easy eye contact with Clovis. “I’ve been getting a lot better. It’s like waking up from a strange dream after you have fallen into a coma. You have to learn things again. In the beginning, everyone thought I would be another failure, but when I got better they started to like me. I enjoy talking with them. There are so many people here from so many places over this moon, and they can tell you about all sorts of amazing places on Earth. I’m looking forward to visiting it myself.”

“I believe you will appreciate it,” Clovis said automatically, and looked to Amy. “I think I’ll take the tour now.”

He wanted to start walking. To have something physical to stop the philosophical dwelling on the Ada question that was threatening to overtake his focus here - and it wasn’t dwelling on the Exo project in this way.

“Wonderful, right this way,” Matthew said, apparently missing his own shift in demeanor, though Amy seemed to pick up that Ada was unsettling him, but said nothing. Together the quartet walked out into the hallway, with Matthew taking point.

Amy spoke, asking a seemingly bizarre question. “So Ada… tell us about the sun in the blue sky.”

However, that question made Ada seemingly loosen up. With a dynamic voice, filled with passion he didn’t expect from a machine, she painted an image for Clovis of an evening sun above the ocean at a beach. Then she talked about surfing and an engineer, Miles Chengjo, and a psychologist named Tara Nielson and their mannerisms.

She mentioned poker games and how nobody would play Chess, Risk, or any other strategy game with her anymore except the assessment team (“I am not good enough at losing”). Apparently she had become something between a secretary and a mascot, building a web of social relationships with mechanical efficiency and a library of stories of human experience. “People like how I can listen to them about everything.” She’d said, and Clovis could understand why.

Listening to her was a fascinating experience indeed.

“This is the Engineering Lab,” Matthew motioned off to the side, into a room where there were teams of engineers near racks, manufacturing machines, and tables of blueprints. Half-finished models were put together; prototype limbs being tested. “Now that we’ve effectively ensured the base form is stable, we’re having Triumvirate teams coming in for militarization.”

“I know the KGB and Red Army put in their requests,” Clovis recalled.

“Yes, which are now the BANSHEE and MARAUDER lines,” Matthew recalled. “The Chinese have been working on the SILK line, the Indians the JAGUAR, and the Americans have the PATRIOT. Most of them, barring the MARAUDER and JAGUAR are similar to the base humanoid form.”

“Good, good,” Clovis nodded. “But those are still in prototype stages.”

“Yes, for now,” Matthew confirmed. “Some of the models are different enough that specialized testing is needed, plus the remaining issues with the transference procedure. Speaking of which…”

The door was marked in fat letters in cyrillic, english, mandarin and brahmic: **Neurosurgery Wing. High-security zone. Access restricted.** “This will take a moment.” the door opened into an airlock. there were more cameras in the ceiling. Matthew indicated a set of dispensaries in one wall which were noisily filling with plastic bags. “Unfortunately we’ll have to disinfect and robe up. I normally wouldn’t subject you to this but the subjects are delicate.” He looked at Clovis apologetically.

Clovis shrugged. “Very well. I understand.”

The decontamination airlock opened up into a short corridor leading to a lobby. Everything was sealed white polymer here, with curved edges where the floor and ceiling met the walls, and a lot of large glass panes. Colored lines curved from and to on the floors and walls. They passed what were supply rooms based on the door inscriptions, then the view opened into a cleanroom lab on the left and a large collection of computer racks on the right.

Clovis couldn’t help but notice the fat strands of cables that came out of the ceiling, nor the interesting collection of hardware racked up at one end, separated from the server farm by another glass wall: a collection of quite refined-looking computer bricks connected to the surrounding infrastructure by a variety of cables. The scientists were giving them quite a lot of attention from workstations with arrays of large, curving screens.

Straight ahead the area more resembled the ultra-polished, futuristic version of the intensive care stations used by the Politburo's elite. Doctors in full kit were working at their stations, monitoring large displays whose clearest bit of data were Human biometrics.

“Doctor Serdant, good afternoon,” Matthew asked one of the doctors, a middle-aged man of receding hair and pinched features. A Soviet doctor too, from the flag on his sleeve. “What wing can I show General-Secretary Bray the best?”

Serdant’s eyes flicked to Clovis, almost out of...concern? Uncertainty? “Well...the full tour with the procedures would give the most comprehensive experience. That depends on how much the General Secretary wishes to see.”

Clovis fixed his eyes on the doctor. “I came here to understand the full picture. I want to know everything relevant. Full procedures and all.”

“Understood, General Secretary,” The doctor tapped out of his notes and called up a scheduler. After a moment he looked up: “Wing 1 is ready for you, Director Bray.”

“Thank you. This way.” Matthew waved Clovis down a corridor and pointed directly to his right. Clovis gazed through the glass into an operating room where a human was barely visible under clinical sheets and a breathing machine whose hose ran into the person’s trachea. A spider of a surgical unit was working on the man’s head. Clovis flinched when just a moment after he started watching, the unit extended its arms and then all of a sudden, pulled away a good portion of shaved scalp. More arms rotated into place. Laser light flashed acidically.

“We’re currently resecting the scalp, skull and dura of this subject after the pre-pattern imaging procedure,” Matthew explained clinically, joining him as he watched. “I can show you that part later but it is not that interesting, beyond the new nanodot contrast agents we employ. I think you see one of our new kilo-anström MRIs any time you got a medical checkup in the last six months.”

Clovis’ eyes were drawn to the glistening skull bone. “How do you keep the brain from being infected?”

“We seal the surgery site with a micromembrane,” he answered. “It is sterile but provides full access for the nanofiber injection. You may also have noticed the tracheotomy. We’ll resect the jaw and nose next. That’s necessary for the neuroendoscopic access into the inner brain areas. After that come the eyes, for the optical shunts. Once that is complete we insert the mapping equipment.”

Clovis nodded dispassionately. “Show me.”

The next theater was different. The set-up was still the same - a special surgical bed at its center, surrounded by medical equipment - but the surgical unit was different. Its arms held large boxy units into which surgical assistants were carefully inserting cartridges, spliced to nests of optical fiber that flittered under the bright ceiling lights. Then the arms rotated up to the skull and came to a rest. Clovis eyes were drawn to the sight of a glistening red and white brain, lighty pulsing with blood.

“Sensory fiber injection. We’ve adapted a slew of technologies for this, but also innovated a lot ourselves. First-generation cytomachinery plays as important a role here,” Matthew indicated a set of black bags hooked up to yellow lines that ended in syringe units. “As do the nanofiber probes. Each cartridge contains a packed-up set of probe fibres connected to a control chip. The injection units place the set precisely without injuring the brain, then anchor the chip to the sealing membrane. Repeat for a couple hundred units and over a million nanoprobe fiber stems in total.” Pride colored his voice as he described the complex machinery before them.

“Once those preparatory steps are complete we can move to the actual capture. We have eight running capture theaters in this wing and eight in the other,” he gestured idly to the sides. “We could process up to thirty-two subjects at a time in terms of theater space, but our production capacity for the brain imaging hardware is, unfortunately, not currently up to scratch.”

The hallway began to curve in segments. The inner wall was recessed away to accommodate workstations for more operators and doctors. Large screens had been installed facing the hallway, showing scrolling graphs, datapoints, a checklist and giant 3D models of a Human brain from the front, back, both sides, top, bottom and two orthographic projections. Clovis would have expected the brain to be lit up with activity but it was almost entirely dark. Yellow lightning shot through highlit probe fibers into it, kicking off tiny storms of activity that were soon quenched.

“Subject 543.” Matthew stated. “He has just begun the capture process. We are currently in the process of initial mappings. During this step we use not only biochemical complexes that inhibit fresh neuron formation but also anesthetics to disrupt coherent thought and far-range signal propagation. That’s why the brain is almost dark. After the rough maps we relax the principle neuronal inhibition to capture the higher-area activities in relation to each other.”

Clovis looked at the outer wall of the corridor. There, beyond the glass of the other room, lay another body, hooked up to IV bags, catheters and a growth of fiber optics protruding from every area of the head, shrouding the face in a glass forest.

After a few seconds of peering, he asked the question. “Are they ever conscious?”

Matthrew pulled a face, considering. “Not really. The inhibitory drugs block any sort of long-term memory formation or other brain development; there is no continuity or self-recursive development. The stimulation is also too parallel to make sense to a Human brain. And of course our stimulations interfere with and map all the processes of the consciousness as well. At most… it would be like every thought you could think if your brain was frozen in one moment. Except of course you can’t really remember or be self-aware of your brain’s stimulation.”

Clovis nodded. “So in a sense, they are technically conscious, but are incapable of awareness. A permanent fugue.”

Matthew frowned at the answer, but slightly nodded. “Effectively, yes.”

“So what keeps it from being a seizure?”

Matthew almost winced, though instead his lips narrowed to a thin line.“Truthfully, very little. We have to monitor them carefully and adjust a cocktail of drugs. Hormones and the autonomous nervous system still give us trouble. We can clean interference out of the signals but it’s not good for the heart. We use external oxygenation and blood circularization to keep the body from dying on us too early.” His lips parted in an almost exasperated sigh. “Even so the liver values deteriorate and the stomach’s health drops too. It’s a race against the clock. By now we can keep most subjects alive for long enough. In the early days they died on us way more often.”

Matthew led him past more theaters, with him and Amy occasionally interjecting and explaining as he saw Clovis’ eyes wander. As promised the brain renders lit up more, until they were strobing light shows chasing each other almost completely on their own, as if the subjects were conscious again. Clovis also noted that the other cures became more and more jagged, and in one case they witnessed a surgery team working inside the theater, adjusting a forest of syringes in automated dispensers.

In the last theater, the screens were mostly silent; the brain scan windows vacant. The checklist tree on the left side was almost entirely green, safe, a final phase. On the other side, the forest of fiber-optics was being cut back by two operators and another robotic unit. The main thing drawing Clovis attention was Human blood running into a large biohazard container from a pump - and two other large canisters marked with chemical tags, running into the same pump system that seemed to remove all the blood. The now uncovered body had also been slathered in a milky white substance.

Matthew clasped his hands behind his back as he beheld the final theatre. “The last step: vitrification and a destructive, nanometer-level molecular capture by slice-and-scan. It helps us build better neuronal maps as well as an understanding of the Human proteome. It, ah, also has the helpful side-effect of destroying the body. We incinerate the ground-up remains.”

They stepped out into a cross junction. Dark rooms lay on the other side. Clovis looked back on the journey on the fifty meters behind him. It was not a nice one by any measure. A necessary process, perhaps, but certainly not one with pleasant details. Yet this was the cost of the future, and he would not flinch as he acknowledged the truth. A few seconds passed as they walked in the dark. “So what happens after?”

“The complete dataset goes into actual training use.” Matthew finished. “That happens on the server farm we passed on our way in. Eventually we port the agents over into the computation assembly for the exo,” Matthew fished out his phone and tapped his way to a photo of six black, ridged bricks the size of a child’s fist each, connected by cables. “The team verifies integrity on the actual hardware. After that we transfer the agents for integration and review over in the hardware workshops and assessment lab. I would like to take you there next.”

“Lead the way,” Clovis said, instinctively gesturing for Matthew to take point, as his mind briefly reflected on what he said. A part of him was relieved that they were going to a less...grisly part. His familiarity with the KGB had ensured that he was well-acquainted with the messier side of governance, though he’d personally found the performance rather distasteful.

Necessary, but one he disliked performing. A barbaric side of his species that was an unfortunate reality that needed to be tapped into. This was quite similar in comparison. The procedure was certainly unpleasant, but it was for the future, one that he would ensure forever remained in Human hands.

That was worth any sacrifice, and fortunately these were at least performed on the lowest scum on Earth. Nonetheless, this knowledge didn’t quite remove the unsettlement as he had watched the process. However, he preferred to know the truth than live in an inconvenient delusion. A lesser man would have been horrified, but he had the clarity of mind to see the necessity of such measures.

Still, he personally felt like Matthew was a little _too_ nonchalant about the entire process. Well, perhaps he had simply become used to it. Probably not something to dwell on.

As they continued walking, he noticed that Ada, who had walked by them silently the whole time seemed to pause, and briefly fixate on the last theatre they had come from. It was only for a split-second, and then she rejoined them.

He wondered what her perspective was on the procedure. He thought about asking, but decided against it.

Perhaps one for later.

Matthew was talking again, and Clovis decided it was probably best to focus on what he said next.

***

**HELIOPOLIS | CAIRO | EGYPT**

Egypt was only a moderately better climate than the Arabian desert, at least in Isaiah’s estimation. Then again, anything less than scorching heat felt good by comparison. Though thankfully, he wasn’t outdoors, but in a pleasant, air-conditioned building. Unfortunately he was unable to relax, though more due to the circumstances of why he was here.

He couldn’t help but feel slightly exposed, and rather paranoid, given the situation. In a relatively casual disguise, the only weapon he had was a concealed pistol – and Sagira waiting in the wings in case something went wrong. She was the only reason he was taking a risk like this.

Everyone was on edge now, following the attack. It had been a purely operational success, the likes of which had caused a storm of reaction and fear he could have only dreamed of. The Triumvirate media had gone berserk as expected, but there had been something in the aftermath he’d heard through rumors and insurgent rings.

Not hope, per-se, but revelation.

Revelation again that the Triumvirate was, and remained vulnerable. This had been impactful in a way that Gopal’s death hadn’t been. America was held as the bastion of the western world. The embodiment of power and influence, of wealth, status and privilege. It was one thing to gain their ire, it was another to strike their government – and succeed.

The obvious question was simple – if it worked once, why wouldn’t it work again?

He’d not celebrated as some of the others had done. Well, he’d shared a drink with Liberman, but other than that, he’d been too distracted with the ramifications that would doubtless come up. It also felt wrong to celebrate, per-se, as most of the Congress was filled with just useful idiots, with only a few malicious puppetmasters.

Sagira must have been rubbing off of him. He suspected that a year ago he’d not given them a second thought. Well, perhaps it was because they were American. He didn’t have the hatred for them that he did for the Chinese. If he’d gunned down the CCP, he _would_ probably celebrate.

The CCP, now that was an idea. Maybe for the future.

The consequences of it had been…significant as well. The annexation of Canada had been a risk, but one he hadn’t been convinced they’d follow through on. In that respect, he’d underestimated them, yet the real problem was the systemic neutralization of the British business ring. As a result, a full third of their finances had gone up in smoke overnight, which was going to cause…problems in the long term. More of the network was at risk too, and the Triumvirate was aggressively looking to dismantle the business ring piece by piece, and all of British Intelligence was working to prevent that.

In the meantime, there was a soft blockade around the British Isles, where all incoming traffic was scanned and inspected prior to entry, which gravely slowed down trade. It was a hassle, but the British were professionals. No one was importing actual _weapons_ into the United Kingdom. It remained a money operation – not a smuggling one.

Isaiah had heard the British were preparing for an invasion contingency, and he couldn’t rule out that possibility. The Triumvirate was looking for a reason, and he didn’t feel like counting on any of the supposed “reasonable” ones in the Triumvirate. They’d been sidelined in Canada, and Valentin’s pointless condemnation did nothing.

Power only meant something if it was wielded. Otherwise it was just words.

The door behind him opened. “[Apologies for the delay,]” an aged voice said, one hardened by cynicism. The Egyptian Minister of Defense, Nabeel al-Nairouz sat opposite him at his desk. He was a big man, one who most people would mistake for large and dumb. His face was squarish, his head bald, reminding Isaiah of a grape, and his eyes were very round, almost bulging, and colored like almonds.

He was massive, standing over two meters, and was dangerously fit to boot. A mountain of a man, one who even Isaiah doubted he could handle in a physical confrontation. His hands were large enough that his weapons required custom grips, and he was rumored to be a master with a massive bowie knife and faster than expected. Sadly, there were few verified videos of the man in action.

An imposing profile that was fatally misleading.

Isaiah had never met the Minister of Defense in person before, but he knew very well who he was, as he was somewhat infamous in the Resistance. Enmity between Egypt and the Resistance had existed for decades now, starting with Nairouz’s actions years ago when the Muslim Brotherhood had almost gained power in the height of the Indian march on the Middle East.

The civilian government was hapless to curb the calls for Egyptian intervention, and the Brotherhood had raised protests in the thousands to force action. The President at the time was on the verge of giving in and almost certainly dooming Egypt to fall under the Indian march, when the entire civilian government had been removed by the Egyptian military – with Nairouz at its head.

Together with several of his compatriots, he set about systematically and brutally purging the government of Islamists, Brotherhood politicians, Indian sympathizers, and Triumvirate supporters – anyone viewed as anti-Egyptian. He oversaw the arrest and termination of most the leaders of the protests, temporarily expelled foreign nationals, and briefly shut down foreign-based businesses before instituting a policy of neutrality that every Egyptian President had adhered to since then. He’d been very, very vocal in denouncing the Resistance as the years had passed, even as he’d maintained Egyptian independence.

He did not like the Resistance, and many in the Resistance hated him in return.

Though one thing that was notable to Isaiah was that, unlike previous military dictators, Nairouz had not kept his power and assumed the office of President in the aftermath. Instead, once he’d achieved his objectives, he’d ordered new elections, ones which had rebuilt the civilian government, and once more ceded power. He hadn’t even asked for the position of Minister of Defense – but it had been offered nonetheless.

Isaiah wasn’t sure if he’d been offered that to placate him – as the Minister of Defense was an important role in the Egyptian government – or to subtly remove him from the Army properly. He doubted the latter, as everyone was likely still terrified of Nairouz, and he was unofficially the most powerful man in the country.

As such, the fact that he was willing to talk with the Resistance now was…a sign. It remained to be seen if it was a good one. Isaiah wasn’t convinced he was on their side, given his comments on the Resistance – mostly disdain for what he saw as overt Islamist influence - but he was _definitely_ sure that he wasn’t on the Triumvirate’s. “[No trouble,]” Isaiah said, speaking Arabic as Nairouz was. “[I expect you are busy.]”

“[That is one description,]” Nairouz grunted, as he appraised Isaiah, and laced his sausage-like fingers together. “[I won’t waste time. I don’t know how your people managed to pull off that attack that massacred the American Congress - but for what its worth, I’m impressed.]”

His voice sounded more annoyed than impressed. “[I’ll accept that,]” Isaiah said neutrally.

“[And as usual, your people have no thought for the consequences,]” Nairouz said pointedly. “[You’ve also royally screwed everyone else in the world. The Triumvirate is howling for blood.]”

Isaiah raised an eyebrow. “[They’ve always howled for blood. What does one expect of an institution whose power is threatened, and their veneer of protection shattered?]”

“[I am not surprised by it,]” he answered. “[Yet it is simple for you. You hide in your caves and deserts, and do not have to fear retaliation. Your allies hold the threat of nuclear retaliation. Such acts you can carry out without reprisal.]” He rested his hands on his armrests. “[The rest of us are not so lucky.]”

Isaiah wasn’t especially intimidated. “[I imagine this is leading to a point. The alternative for us was to do nothing, and let the Triumvirate roll over us unopposed.]”

“[Yes, a truth I am aware of, I’m telling you this to remind you that not everyone has that luxury,]” Nairouz’s lips pursed. “[Everything has started going wrong the moment that damn alien showed up. There was a peace, if tenuous, now we have bombings every few days, annexations, worldwide unrest, and the Triumvirate looming over us.]” His eyes glinted. “[A precarious situation. I’d say you were an idiot for your people kicking off the next Triumvirate expansion, but as I you said, there is no viable alternative.]”

“[Not unless we wanted to wait for Gala to hunt us down.]”

The Minister’s face twisted. “[No doubt. The Indians have truly gone mad putting him in charge again.]” he practically spat. “[That is one reason I’m bothering to entertain you today. The only reason we weren’t included in the first invasion was because Gala was gone, and the Indians became distracted by Israel.]”

“[And if I recall, you had a hand in not giving them a reason to come knocking.]”

The ghost of a smile crossed his lips. “[I remain divided on how much I really accomplished. Yet it is good to hear some remember.]”

“[The Resistance certainly does.]”

“[No doubt. Perhaps they shouldn’t have pinned their hopes on the shortsighted Islamists,]” he said dryly. “[Though given your ranks are filled with such, it’s hardly surprising they latched onto what they saw as their only hope.]”

“[Desperation forces all options to be considered.]”

“[A view I can understand,]” Nairouz reached to the side, where a small coffee pitcher was brewing. “[Coffee, Osiris?]” Nairouz had been very amused when he’d heard his cover name – as he certainly wasn’t going to use his real one until Nairouz proved reliable. Nonetheless, there hadn’t been any comment beyond that.

Isaiah shook his head. “[I’ll pass.]”

“[Your loss,]” Nairouz poured some for himself, as he continued. “[I’ll give you an overview of what has been happening, since I doubt you’re clued into how the Triumvirate has approached Africa. They are pressuring the continent to sign economic and military agreements. Tax breaks, military bases, joint training, state-sponsored corporate expansion, the goal ultimately being to bring all of Africa into their sphere of influence. Soft, subtle imperialism. Clever, and effective. We host their companies, buy their goods, train with their soldiers, and import their resources. We destroy our economic independence, subscribe to their military doctrine, and thank them for it.]”

He shook his head. “[Unfortunately, its appealing, especially when the alternative is sanctions, which most countries can’t afford. The Triumvirate is building to a summit, where they want to make the signing of these agreements public and binding. The actions against Morocco, and now Canada, have cast a cloud over everything. No one wants to condemn their country to occupation. No one wants their country invaded and forcefully overthrown.]”

“[And Egypt is no exception, I assume.]” Isaiah said.

“[I’m afraid not,]” Nairouz gave a bitter smile. “[In some ways, it’s worse. The President is a corrupt, feckless coward who is more interested in gaining as much personal wealth from the Triumvirate. Half of my Generals are directly advocating for it so they can formalize their loyalties to the Triumvirate military industrial complex, and earn the respective wealth that accompanies such corruption.]”

He sighed, drumming his fingers on the table. “[We are weak and vulnerable now. Even if the Brotherhood were to rise as they once did, I suspect not even that would unite the armed forces. As it stands, there are too many who are willing to sell out my country, then defend it. I dislike your jihadists, but they - and I - know who my real enemy is.]”

“[I think we can both agree with that,]” Isaiah nodded. That was clear code for another overthrow of the government. It was worth taking the next step. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a flash drive. “[A show of good faith. The Indians are sloppy in their security. We were able to acquire schematics they’ve been working on. Weapons. Mechs. Equipment years beyond what is currently out there, that we can’t produce on our own. There is too much scrutiny on the British and Israelis for mass production. Egypt is the only non-aligned country that had the industrial capability to manufacture these, even on a small scale.]”

A lie, but one he needed to maintain. The British and Israelis _were_ working very, very hard to figure out what they could manufacture themselves. Israel could only manufacture so much, while the British were in a better position. They most certainly weren’t going to rely on Egypt being the only source of advanced weapons.

With the public scrutiny on both countries, it wasn’t a leap to believe that the British and Israelis wouldn’t want to risk Triumvirate attention. Maybe Nairouz thought so as well, or maybe he didn’t care one way or another.

The Minister took the drive almost gingerly as he appraised it, the drive looking laughably small in his massive hands. “[Well, this is a welcome development. Though merely a step, and it may not be enough.]”

“[Which means you have a plan.]”

“[A “plan” is one description,]” he said dryly. “[I am far from the only one who sees the inevitable end this policy will lead. There are those who are willing to accept the eternal hegemony of the Triumvirate, but I am not one of them. Neither are others across the continent. The issue is that they are led by men who are unwilling to stand against the Triumvirate. To risk their lives and power for their people and nation. To risk their wealth and comfort. Men who the Triumvirate exploits. Men who will allow the next iteration of colonialism. That cannot be allowed. If necessary…there is a contingency.]”

He narrowed his eyes at Isaiah. “[Though it is not so simple. This alone is not enough. I have no guarantee that the Triumvirate would not simply crush me, even if there is nothing provocative we do. You want me – my country – to support your Resistance. You’ve seen what they’ve done to non-compliant countries – In what way does this not end the same for me?]”

_Do you think he can be persuaded?_

_I think he can be._ Sagira responded. _He clings to hope, it is why he is here, the world had beaten him down again and again, and he wants to be proven wrong. Give him hope._

With a mental nod, Isaiah raised his palm, angled flat. A second later, Sagira materialized above it, the iris blinking as Nairouz was visibly taken aback, his eyes shifted from Isaiah to the Ghost. A minute of silence passed, and he could see the mind of the Minister working overtime as he put the many pieces together – and the implications of such pieces. “[This was how you were able to conduct the attack.]”

A statement, not a question.

“[Yes.]”

He leaned forward, his question slow and deliberate, each word delicately pronounced. “[The alien – is it on your side?]”

This was going to be a tricky answer. “[Not as directly as we would like…but She wants to see the Triumvirate…change,]” Isaiah briefly paused. “[She had become less stringent on what that change looks like. I do not know how She had interacted with the Triumvirate, but my impression is that it has shifted in an unfavorable direction. It isn’t a coincidence that the troublemakers in the Triumvirate have Ghosts around them. Ones you have likely heard about.]”

“[Yes, I have indeed heard of them. Fascinating…]” Nairouz briefly trailed off, his eyes briefly becoming unfocused. “[This…changes things. Perhaps there is an opportunity here, one which could be seized.]” He refocused on Isaiah. “[But not for nothing. If I decide to support your people, I will need guarantees.]”

As expected. “[Name them.]”

“[Keep your jihadists out of my country,]” he said pointedly, in a tone that brooked no room for misunderstanding. “[No supporting the Islamist remnants, be they from the Brotherhood or elsewhere. If I learn that your people are harboring and supporting them, our agreement will be terminated.]”

Hamaza would probably have some reservations with those conditions, but that seemed fair in Isaiah’s view. It also wasn’t as though they had many other options. “[I’ll pass that along, and we’ll be in touch. I expect it will be accepted.]”

“[There is one more thing your people might wish to look into,]” Nairouz raised a finger. “[As my own show of good faith. There is an insurgent group based in Brazil which has recently re-emerged. Egyptian Intelligence had believed them destroyed, but it appears they survived in the Amazon. I might recommend that your people make contact with them. A foothold in South America is where the Confederation is weakest.]”

“[Thank you,]” Isaiah said. “[I’ll investigate further. Though first…]”

“[First, we finalize our own agreement,]” Nairouz smiled, a dangerous one. “[The Triumvirate is on the verge of success. We are perhaps the only bastion against their hegemony in this continent. Let us make sure their attempt will be costly.]”

***

**BRAYTECH FUTURESCAPE OUTSKIRTS | MARS**

The tranquility of Mars served as a stark contrast to the conflict roiling through Valentin’s mind. The world really had been turned into something beautiful when it had been touched by the Traveler. He sat along the edge of a moderately high outlook, where underneath ran a stream of crystal water.

Across the fields were Martian trees, the orange-yellow grass, and a light breeze that wasn’t too strong or weak. Black-orange clouds swirled in the sky, not strong enough for a storm, but providing some color to the sky. A short distance further was the Futurescape itself, now almost complete.

Valentin wondered what they were working on now. He wondered if Ana had gotten the answers she wanted. He’d have to check up on her at some point, and see where that was. There was just…so much that was going on. Things that were happening that he felt he could only keep track of so many.

He was one person, one person with a drive to do some good, to curtail the worst parts of his government, to try and do the ‘right thing’ – something he was becoming less and less certain what that _was_. But he was still only one person. The more he dug, the more involved he was, the more lost he became. He didn’t know what was normal, what was dangerous, what was out of the ordinary.

Government, spying, military, politics, all of that was foreign to him, and he was acutely aware the more he worked, that the people surrounding him knew far more about how the system worked than he could. They’d grown up in it, worked within it for years, and he’d grown up in rural Russia to a working family.

He wasn’t supposed to _be_ where he was.

And things were moving too fast for him to keep proper track of. He didn’t trust Clovis to tell him the truth now, but when he did, it just made everything all the more confusing. He couldn’t shake his instinct that Clovis was manipulating everything for his own ends, as no matter what he tried to do, Clovis either subverted, prevented, or ignored it.

He might as well have been shouting to the wind for all the good it did. He felt he was being treated like a child; given the illusion of control and influence, and he didn’t know if that was true, or if he was just being overly paranoid. All he knew was that there was _something_ Clovis and the Triumvirate were moving towards, and he didn’t know what it was.

He finally spoke. “I want your advice.”

Fang Sov sat cross-legged near him, his Ghost hovering around his shoulder. Completing their trio was Milya Mihaylova, who’d also joined them for this semi-impromptu meeting. It was a semi-reunion that Valentin was glad for. Liana couldn’t make it, as she’d been put on protection duty for the President.

When he’d last spoken to her, he couldn’t remember her being as mad as she was. He hadn’t been able to get as much detail on what she was doing – but she’d implied it involved Admiral Holliday, and that it was likely to do with counterterrorism. Neither had talked about Canada, and Valentin suspected her view was very different from his own.

She was a soldier, after all. He couldn’t completely blame her. Perhaps the only reason he could hold his own view was because he held no inherent loyalty to the Soviet Union, whereas patriotism was a hallmark of being an American. Technically, it was for the Soviets and Chinese, but for Americans it was _real_.

Then there was “Jacob Milton” and literally no one knew what had happened to him. That was bothering him more than it probably should, made all the more odd with the fact that Vigil was tacitly avoiding the question. The CIA didn’t answer the question, the TIS wasn’t helpful either. It was odd how he’d more or less dropped off the face of the Earth.

Although technically now, that was very possible.

“I’m not sure what I can give,” Fang said, plucking a blade of grass. “Things are…moving fast.”

Valentin snorted. “Modest until the end. I’ve heard what you’ve been doing. Supposedly the Chinese aren’t happy with you.”

“That classified KGB intel?” Fang said, amused, and with a raised eyebrow. “Well, you could probably say that. Subverting the existing power structure should make a few enemies.”

“Yes, that,” Valentin coughed. “It’s…you seem to be being decisive. It’s easy, whereas where I am, it’s less so. Clovis is…” He trailed off with a shrug.

“I admit,” Fang finally said. “I don’t know what to say about Clovis, I’ve not interacted with him like you have. But from what you’ve said, and from the class he came from, I’d be careful with inherently trusting him. Men like him are ambitious and do not care about others. If you didn’t have Vigil at your side, he would never acknowledge your existence. You’re a…well, worker. He is one of the respective elite. For Americans it’s businessmen, for the Chinese its blood and family, for the Soviets it is the administrators. Everyone outside of those classes is inherently _lesser._”

“And the Indians?” Milya asked.

Fang thought for a moment. “A mixture. Religious leaders and military officials. India is more unique, in that the classes emerge through collective uplifting. Drawn to charisma and strength. I expect this to change further as industrialization continues.”

“You say that, ignoring they have an entire caste system,” Valentin pointed out.

Both of them shook their heads. “An old relic that no one cares about these days,” Milya said. “It still exists in some capacity, but it is…more tradition.”

“Though there is a distinct social hierarchy,” Fang pointed out. “Separated along racial and religious lines. Those are more important than the traditional view of ‘class’. Non-Hindu and non-Indian ethnicities face greater hardships, unless you’re a foreigner, which is an entirely separate category.”

Milya sighed softly. “I wish you were wrong.”

“Neither of you were raised among the elites,” Fang continued after a moment, as he started out. “I was. You think that they think like you, that there is some common ground. There isn’t. It’s impossible to comprehend how…dispassionate and ruthless they are. They can put up a veneer, but they have a worldview where they inherently see themselves as superior. I don’t know why I was the only one to break this, or at least most of it, but the contrast is starker now.”

He bit his lip. “The more I talk with people, the more I realize that every single problem that exists only does so because it is allowed. Poverty, sickness, racism, homelessness…the list goes on. There are thousands of homeless in Beijing alone, and even I can’t do more than strong-arm some corporations into building a few shelters.”

Valentin waited as he paused, despite the words, which he normally would have expected to accompany a depressed voice, Fang sounded almost defiant. “Valentin, you feel like there’s things you can’t do because it’s more difficult. Why is that? Rules? Wanting to follow procedures? Unsure of who to believe?”

“I’ll check ‘all of the above’.”

“Right,” Fang nodded sharply. “That is all a lie. Men like Clovis, and the other elites of the world do not follow the rules or procedures, they subvert, control, or ignore them. That is a power that you, I, Milya, and everyone else chosen by the Traveler have – but us three in particular. We were each picked for a reason, I’m sure of it.”

“As am I,” Valentin agreed. “But we can’t just…well, change everything as we want.”

“Are you sure about that?” Fang shook his head. “You _think_ you can’t, but that is what Clovis, what Li, what Quinn all rely on. They _know_ they can’t touch us, but are tapping into our inherent desire for authority. Because of upbringing, propaganda, what have you, we are hesitant to use power and leverage, even if we have it, because of a nebulous fear of ‘disrupting’ order. They rely on comfortable normalcy instead of what is dubbed _radical_.”

Fang snorted. “_Radical_. That’s what was called when I confiscated the corporation of an oligarch and gave it to the people. When I broke the Communist Party’s hold on media, and let people who weren’t Party tools speak. I grew up among them, I _knew_ how they worked and thought, and even I had that same fear you do, Valentin. You don’t go against the Party, speaking out against that legislation was the scariest thing I’ve done in my life, but I needed to do it. Ever since then? It’s been easier. It’s the first step that’s the hardest, but that will break the invisible hold that’s over you.”

It was comforting to hear that, and Valentin instinctively knew he was right. That there was a mental block he had to get past, otherwise he might as well let Clovis do what he wanted. He was letting everything be dictated for him, when he should be seizing it himself. He’d thought it meant something when he spoke out against the military actions of the Triumvirate, but he’d felt it hollow the more he did it.

Those were words. There needed to be action.

_Do the thing you’re afraid of._

Vigil seemed to sum it up well.

“I don’t know,” Milya said softly. “If I were to do that…I fear I would wind up raped and killed. The last months have been difficult. I’ve seen mobs ripping people apart, rhetoric against the minorities that chills me, and now Arjun is back…” she shivered. “I don’t know what to do here.”

“They can’t touch you,” Fang told her. “Not if they want to bring the Traveler’s wrath upon them.”

Milya’s eyes were haunted. “You don’t know who Arjun is, or what he is capable of. I’m sorry, I don’t think I can do that, even though I know I should.”

Fang’s eyebrows furrowed. “You seem to know him better. I knew he was a harsh military officer, but you seem…” he trailed off. “Frightened.”

Milya’s eyes briefly closed. “Were you alive when Nobusuke Kishi became Prime Minister of Japan.”

Fang went still at that. “I was not…but my parents were.” He shook his head. “I still don’t know how that monster got into power.”

“Monsters have that skill,” she said tonelessly, hugging herself. “Arjun is our Kishi, Fang Sov. He’s our monster that should have been taken out back and shot. Instead he was shuffled away, hidden when what he did to the Arabs came to light, and now he’s back. These terrorists must be stopped…but not even they deserve what Arjun will do to them.”

_You should help her._

_Yes, I should._

“We’re all acting alone, if acting at all,” Valentin said, a plan of sorts coming to mind. “Divide and conquer seems to be intended to some degree with those in power.”

“Yes, consciously and unconsciously,” Fang agreed. “There are eight billion people on Earth, and power resides in the hands of a few hundred at most. The people in power however, are never threatened even though sheer numbers could force change. People are…easily divided. It’s easy to give them an equivalent or lesser enemy. Pretend power, centered around race, gender, nationality, social status, and other superficial factors.”

He paused. “I sometimes wonder how many people who get into power start with good intentions, and when they reach a certain level, they just…change. They realize how easily people can be turned against each, how easily they can be manipulated, and wonder why they should bother. If the people cannot see they’re being used, why should they be helped? I do not even know if it is malicious, or just something that…happens. Apathy, comfort within the status quo, and an ingrained belief that the world cannot be better.”

“I don’t remember you being this philosophical,” Valentin noted.

Fang smiled sadly. “I’ve been thinking more on this in the past few months. I’d given up any notion of having power. I didn’t want it, and was fine with it. But I…have power now, and it seems wrong to not use it the way others will not. Even if doing so makes me enemies, and initially scares me.”

Valentin nodded. “Where I was going with this is that we’ve been doing our own thing. Maybe we should start working closer together. Force change on something major, that can’t be ignored by anyone.”

Milya cocked her head. “You have an idea?”

“Yes, I do,” Valentin smiled grimly. “Well, actually two. I think you’ll like both of them.”

***

**OFFICE OF THE GENERAL SECRETARY | MOSCOW | SOVIET UNION**

Clovis wasn’t sure he’d heard correctly. He narrowed his eyes at Calumet who’d practically stormed into his office – irregular for her. “[Commander – please repeat that, because I could _swear_ that I misheard you.]”

Her eyes were blazing with an intensity he’d rarely seen, and her body tense with a mixture of irritation and anger. “[Valentin and a number of other Soviet TERRA ONE personnel are currently in Canada and talking with former government officials about restoration, and Fang Sov is openly pressuring the Communist Party to support ending the ‘occupation’. Every single media outlet is picking up on this, and everyone seems to think we’re demanding America release Canada.]”

Right, he’d been afraid that’s what she’d said. Wonderful, he was still reflecting on his visit to the Deep Stone Crypt, and this kind of incident was something he _didn’t_ want to come back too. “[With respect, General Secretary,]” she demanded after a moment. “[What the hell is going on? I’m getting calls from the Americans demanding what we’re _doing_.]”

“[Tell them this isn’t us,]” Clovis quickly said, standing and quickly running through how to handle this diplomatic incident that was going to escalate unless there wasn’t immediate intervention. “[This is Valentin and Sov doing their own thing again.]”

“[‘That thing’ is going to reflect very _badly_ on us if we don’t put our foot down _now_,]” Calumet stated. “[I know you don’t want to antagonize him, but this is completely unacceptable. I don’t care if he’s against the annexation, because first, that isn’t our place – it’s the Americans - and second, he _doesn’t_ go around us like this. His little speeches are one thing, this is direct policy intervention.]”

“[I’m well aware,]” Clovis said tightly, lifting a hand to cut her off, and she immediately complied. “[Valentin wants to flex his own influence it seems, and appears to have grown a spine. Likely Sov’s influence, no doubt. Li’s completely botched handling him,]” he shook his head in disgust and annoyance. “[Order an immediate Red Army deployment to augment the American forces in Canada, and inform the State Department the Soviet Union disavows the words of Valentin Kozhukhov and we respect the actions undertaken by the Confederation and stand with their fight against terrorism.]”

“[It will be done, General Secretary,]” Calumet saluted. “[I’ll inform them immediately, and pass the information to our respective agencies. I appreciate your swift response, General Secretary.]”

“[That is my role, after all,]” he said with a nod. “[Thank you for bringing this to my attention. Dismissed, Commander.]”

She quickly turned on her heel, and marched out, leaving Clovis alone, and he leaned back, lacing his fingers together as he contemplated the crystalline problem which presented itself.

It appeared that Valentin was going to continue being a problem, and he was unfortunately a problem with very few options for recourse. While his initial attempts at stymying his interference had been successful, there was always going to come a point where that became unviable – unfortunate that it had come now, and not in a few months.

On that he fully blamed Li and his incompetence in handling the Chinese returnees, Sov in particular was a catalyst, and close to Valentin, and it was inevitable that he was going to influence him to some degree. Now they were coordinating, and unless this little rebellion was quickly put down, it would be poison to the Triumvirate.

He’d become more troublesome, even before now. He’d had to subtly reshuffle the entire SHIVA department – which had been no small task - after Valentin had somehow found references to it, went to _Ana_, who had no idea what it was and predictably freaked out, and made a series of demands they were forced to “address” to placate her lest her suspicion be further raised. Well, the Black Armory had a few extra minds for a few months before they were quietly returned to SHIVA.

He sighed. Ana had become a brilliant woman to be proud of, yet she unfortunately lacked the backbone and strength to be a part of his vision. A shame, but she would contribute to the Triumvirate in her own way, though he would have to ensure that details of the Exo Project remained...obfuscated. He suspected neither she nor Valentin would take the details well, or the necessity of such measures. The Warmind Project was still proceeding on schedule, as were most projects. However the most important one was at the prototype stage, and while he disliked that it might have to see a premature deployment…the options were running out.

The door opened, and he wasn’t surprised to see Luka enter, his face grim. Clovis quickly did a scan to ensure there were no Ghosts eavesdropping, as he suspected this would be a talk they didn’t want other ears listening in on. The device blinked affirmatively; they were free to talk. “[You’ve no doubt heard the news.]”

“[Valentin is interfering again, yes,]” Clovis said dryly. “[Quite a troublesome pest he has become.]”

The KGB head crossed his arms. “[It’s time to start considering JUPITER.]”

An unfortunate statement, but one Clovis grimly saw the utility for now. “[I agree.]”

“[Good, because the Americans are furious at us right now, and if Sov successfully persuades the Chinese to follow suit, this is going to go from an ugly diplomatic incident into something worse.] Luka warned.

“[The Chinese won’t do that,]” Clovis shook his head. “[This is Sov pulling optics to lay the groundwork for his Second Cultural Revolution. Valentin doesn’t seem to know that he can’t just go into a country and demand it do things. There are military and political procedures that take weeks before anything is actually done.]”

“[That’s the problem,]” Luka grunted, pinching the bridge of his nose. “[He seems to think he _can_. When the Chinese are doing nothing to assert themselves with Sov’s meddling, he obviously thinks he can replicate that here.]”

“[Which would be smarter, if he was doing it in the Soviet Union, not America where we don’t have jurisdiction,]” Clovis muttered. “[Though perhaps that is the point. Putting us in a difficult situation might be what he wants, he wants to know how committed we are to his…well, his own ideas.]”

“[His own idea or the Traveler’s?]” Luka wondered aloud.

“[I wouldn’t be surprised if that Ghost is whispering in his ear, but this is likely more to do with Sov than the Traveler, she’s occupied with other things,]” Clovis said. “[Though perhaps the alien was the one who whispered into Sov’s ear. Regardless of what the catalyst was, it has become a destabilizing influence.]”

“[As I said,]” Luka repeated. “[JUPITER. Controlling Valentin is failing, despite your efforts. Letting him roam around, even unsuccessfully, is destabilizing. His other allies are going to not be quiet anymore either.]”

Clovis’ lips curled up. “[As if they were before?]”

“[You know what I am speaking of,]” Luka snorted. “[Risky as it is, we have no choice. I also understand there is a working prototype. We will need to likely employ it. The alien will likely become suspicious when it is carried out.]”

“[If we need to do it at all,]” Clovis quickly interrupted. “[I do not want to initiate JUPITER. It is too early for me to feel comfortable in its success. Lets see how Valentin handles rejection here – if we put limits on him, and implement some discipline of our own, we may buy ourselves more time.]”

Luka seemed unconvinced. “[We both know that won’t work.]”

“[Perhaps not, but I will not authorize this unless there is no other choice.]”

“[Noted, General Secretary,]” Luka glanced down at his phone. “[One more thing – do you remember a Milya Mihaylova?]”

He thought back briefly. “[One of the five on Mars? Indian, correct?]”

“[Correct,]” he nodded sharply. “[She’s also reemerged, with a few of the Indian TERRA ONE returnees. She went on India’s largest news network and condemned the deployment of Arjun Gala. Needless to say, this has not gone over well.]”

“[Of course it didn’t,]” Clovis rubbed his forehead. Yet another wonderful development, though at least this one made some degree of sense. Only fanatical idiots would want a genocidal monster like Arjun anywhere near power. “[Brave of her, considering the people she’s angering.]”

“[The Indian government has thus far not made any comment,]” Luka said. “[But if she was hoping to incite some public pressure through this…well, it isn’t going to work. Her house was just ransacked by a mob, and she’s likely in hiding now. She probably can’t rely on state protection since the hardliners are in power.]”

This is what they got for not understanding how the world worked. Fang Sov was at least smart about how he employed his pressure, and achieved numerous small and medium victories, whereas Valentin and Milya seemed to think if they said something, it would happen. It was almost fortunate he was dealing with such novices in the employment of power.

Still, Valentin growing a harder spine was admirable in a way. He much preferred a real rival than one that would roll over at the first sign of struggle. The phone started ringing. Clovis picked it up. “[This is General Secretary Bray.]”

“[I have President Quinn on the line for you, General Secretary,]” his secretary said. “[She sounded impatient – and angry.]”

“[Put her on, thank you,]” Clovis internally sighed. Quinn had reason to be mad, but hopefully she would be able to see reason. He braced himself for an earful of cold venom. A few seconds passed and the connection was made. “[Hello, Madam President. Let’s talk.]”

***

**RESISTANCE COUNCIL CHAMBER | TEL AVIV | ISRAEL**

It had taken several weeks, but Hamaza had to admit that Isaiah’s operation had certainly caused _things_ to happen. In the early hours following the operation, after seeing the sheer outpouring of anger and hatred from around the world, he’d feared that this had been the catalyst that would bring the end, and that they’d gone too far.

Picking out the exact threshold they could push the Triumvirate was like flying near the sun. Fly too close, the wings melted, and they died. Fortunately, now that the dust had settled, he believed that while the wax had become soft, it had not melted yet, though there was only so much leverage they had left.

And they were nowhere close to out of the woods yet.

Isaiah, Liberman, and Jilla were meeting now. Arya was back in the UK, and helping manage the fallout which had directly targeted the British business network, which was being waged covertly, legally, and economically. Arya thought that they would be able to _largely_ retain their network, but the combination of the blockade and renewed state interest meant that all funding operations would be constrained for the immediate future.

They’d have to make do with what was left, and it wasn’t coming at a good time.

“Arjun is securing more cities,” Jilla said grimly. “Now that his military is established, he’s starting political ‘reforms’. New laws are being implemented. He’s still putting up the veneer of civility, which will work on anyone who doesn’t look deeper. All non-Indian citizens are required to register, all curriculum has been suspended and replaced. All Arab teachers have been ‘reassigned’, and schools have an armed police presence. All in the same of ‘safety’ and ‘counter-terrorism’.”

“Shaheed’s done his best,” Hamaza said, pursing his lips. “There are some things that can’t be stopped so easily.”

“No, it can’t, not really,” Jilla shook her head. “We’re inferior in almost every metric. Manpower, technology, resources, he holds the advantage. Maybe we know the region better, but that’s it. We’ve seen some successes against his labs and factories, but he’s since hardened them with automated defenses and…other deterrents.”

She placed something that seemed like an armband on the table. “Mandatory for workers now. Managed to find several. ‘Deterrent Bands’ they’re called, given exclusively to Arabic personnel. Labor and science overseers have orders to detonate them if there’s an attack – and they’ve made sure this is known. If Shaheed attacks, he dooms our own people.”

“At least we exfiltrated several schematics before then,” Isaiah said grimly. “Maybe Milya will force them to restrain Arjun.”

“You met her on Mars, yes?” Hamaza asked.

“I did.”

“Your impression?”

“Well-meaning, but naïve,” he said neutrally. “I didn’t expect her to involve herself politically. She struck me as too timid. Smart, but unwilling to stand up to power.”

“She’s doing nothing but hardening the Hindu resolve,” Jilla flatly dismissed. “She’s more likely to end up in a ditch with two shots to the head than actually change minds. Have you seen her being torn apart in their media? They’re doing everything short of calling her an outright traitor.”

“I doubt they’ll touch her,” Isaiah said, nodding to Sagira hovering near him. “That would be…unwise.”

“We’re dealing with people who’ve put a mass murderer in charge of this region,” Jilla snorted. “We’re not dealing with rational people, and with respect to your Ghost, one machine will do nothing against a well-placed sniper shot or a car bomb – both of which are likely. Easy to pin it on terrorists and make her a martyr.”

“You would be surprised,” Sagira said.

“I’m more interested in the other two,” Liberman said, tapping a finger to his chin as he contemplated. “Fang Sov and Valentin Kozhukhov. Sov has been interesting for a while, but only recently has Valentin done something substantive. I wonder if something changed. This is happening too closely together for it to be a coincidence.”

“Canada, most likely,” Isaiah said, shaking his head. “I can’t believe Valentin tried that. He had to have known it wasn’t going to work.”

It had indeed been a valiant effort. It hadn’t taken long for every other Triumvirate member to clarify their stance on Canada – all of which explicitly endorsed the actions of the Confederation. Legally, there wasn’t much Valentin could do, though he’d explicitly placed the former government under his protection – for whatever that was worth.

It had, however, exposed to the public that there was a visible rift between the Kremlin and their supposed poster child. There’d been a lot of discussion on what this meant for the future, though it was all rumor and speculation. There’d been no word on how both men were working it out, the same applied to Fang Sov.

Nonetheless, it was certainly something that could be considered a positive sign.

“Perhaps he did it to see what the reaction of Bray would be,” Hamaza mused. “Not to succeed, but to see if his instincts about him were correct.”

Isaiah seemed darkly amused. “Well, he got his answer. Who could have guessed that the Triumvirate would support each other? I swear, people like him are so blind to their own history they act shocked when they realize that their side does bad things.”

“Better they see now then refuse to accept it at all,” Hamaza pointed out gently.

“Perhaps, but I doubt it will change much,” Isaiah said with a shrug. “Sov appears to be having greater success, though I’m skeptical as to what his intentions are. He’s part of one of the most powerful Imperial families. He’s not doing any of this out of altruism or revolution.”

“Reports seem to indicate he’s not seen himself as part of the respective elite,” Liberman noted. “He’s arguably been estranged, which was why he was on the Moon to begin with. However, I agree. I would not be surprised if Sov is undermining Li to make a power grab of his own, under the guise of a ‘New China’, one with the supposed mandate of the people.”

“With him in charge. That sounds more likely,” Isaiah agreed. “Useful for fomenting unrest in the Empire, but not an ally. Still supportive of the Triumvirate.”

“For now,” Liberman corrected. “What he and Valentin seem to be aiming for is a reformation, rather than a replacement. Which you initially had hopes for, if I remember correctly.”

“It won’t be enough,” Isaiah shook his head. “So long as the same structures and people exist, the Triumvirate will never change. It must be completely destroyed and rebuilt. Neither Sov nor Valentin seem willing to do that.”

“But they _are_ useful for destabilizing the Triumvirate further,” Jilla pointed out. “We shouldn’t take that for granted.”

“Only in the most basic sense,” Isaiah refuted. “Media outrage and questions isn’t change. You can argue Sov has made tangible internal changes. No one else has, and have the overall mission and capabilities of the Triumvirate diminished? No, they haven’t. I’d be wary of hoping for massive destabilization. When the protests and riots start, we can talk more about that.”

“Enough. I think we’ve discussed this at a long enough length,” Hamaza said, briefly closing his eyes. “Isaiah, has there been word from Egypt?”

“Nairouz is being tight-lipped about what he’s doing, but he assures me that ‘things are proceeding,’” Isaiah said dryly. “I don’t know the details, but I expect he is moving forward with his ‘plan’ – whatever that is. I have Dead Cell operatives standing by near Egypt in case he needs support. Hopefully he’s not planning on doing something stupid, because we’ll need him and his industry no matter what comes next.”

Hamaza wasn’t especially thrilled at the prospect of allying with such a man – but Isaiah was right that someone like him was more useful aligned than opposed. It wouldn’t have been the first time they’d allied with a former enemy. Still, he was fairly unrepentant about how he’d purged his government of Muslims, and that inherently made the Grand Ayatollah uneasy.

Events were moving fast now, much faster than he’d originally thought they would. The coming weeks would show if they were going to be fine – or if it was ultimately going to come crashing down on them. There was cautious reason to believe they would emerge intact for a while yet, though their future was nowhere near secured.

Even considering the big picture, the Triumvirate was experiencing mild unrest, and in the smaller picture Arjun was securing victory after victory, and adapting to whatever they threw at him. That was the immediate threat, but one they could hold out against for the immediate future.

“One more thing,” Liberman said. “The Brazilian insurgents, we might have an opportunity to look closer into them. The Mossad has a few agents they’re planning to deploy to South America – there won’t be a better time. I can recommend that they make an effort to locate them.”

“Do so,” Hamaza said. “We will need every ally we can get for what is coming.”

What was coming, they didn’t know. But Hamaza had a feeling that one way or another, it would be decisive.

***

**THE KREMLIN | MOSCOW | SOVIET UNION**

Clovis had some hope that the following weeks would be less exciting, or at least exciting in a way which was in his favor. For the most part, they had been. He’d not had many conversations with Valentin since his attempt at brokering Canadian independence, as he’d seemed content to stay away, for which Clovis was privately thankful for.

He’d been going off to who knew where thanks to his Ghost, but other than that the KGB were still monitoring him when he was in Soviet territory, and now everyone else had their eyes on him too. The Americans in particular were extremely miffed, and it hadn’t taken much convincing for him to tacitly support the monitoring of Valentin should they happen to find him.

Though now, it seemed that there was yet another development.

“[General Secretary, there is a…situation.]”

The words every leader wanted to hear. Now in the situation room, with Calumet and Luka, the Commander turned on the TV which was playing a news station he’d never heard of. Arabic text scrolled underneath, and the speaker in question was clearly a military figure, he made note of the flag behind him.

Egyptian? Then the man speaking was…Nabeel al-Nairouz? It had to have been. Now _that_ was a name he hadn’t thought of in a long, long time. He was privately surprised the man was still alive, let alone still influential. Though his profile was impossible to mistake, few had his presence.

“[What is he saying?]” Clovis asked, not clear on why he was being shown this, though considering the context, he could make a guess – one which boded quite poorly.

“[In short? That, effectively immediately, the military is assuming control of the nation and nearby region to ensure the freedom and safety of the citizens,]” Calumet summarized. “[He has invoked both Canada and Morocco several times, as well as the Chinese invasions and American terror operations.]”

A term caught his ear. “[The _region_?]”

“[Yes,]” Luka consulted the tablet in his hand. “[This is happening in real time. We’re not getting clear information, but there are military coups happening in Libya, Algeria, Tunisia, and there are Egyptian soldiers marching into Morocco as we speak.]”

Clovis blinked. “[They’re _invading?_]”

“[In the most accurate of terms, yes,]” Luka said matter-of-fact. “[Which that would normally be not as much of a concern, were it not for the fact that the Egyptians are using _these_.]”

He handed the tablet to Clovis, who took it and appraised the pictures. Most were not good, poor resolution, bad angles, or blurred, but what they showed was unmistakable. Egyptian soldiers in advanced body armor, carrying next-generation weapons. Not _all_ of the Egyptians were equipped like this, it seemed to be small teams or officers, which meant that their resources were likely limited.

Nonetheless, the fact was that the Triumvirate forces stationed in Morocco were _not_ equivalently equipped. Not to mention the native Moroccan forces that were being integrated. He set the tablet down. “[How bad is it?]”

Calumet and Luka exchanged a look. “[We don’t know yet,]” Calumet said. “[Networks have gone dark, but there are indications that the Moroccan forces were part of this plan, and several sources say that Triumvirate soldiers surrendered and are being held. If that’s true, we should expect an announcement on that shortly. Networks are only now starting to pick this up.]”

Clovis briefly recalled the other countries. “[This was coordinated then. Multiple coups at once,]” he fixated on Luka, his voice allowing some clear irritation to seep into it. “[I want an explanation, Chairman, how we had _no_ indication of this – and more importantly what the fucking _Egyptians_ are doing with _our_ weapons!]”

Luka to his credit maintained his demeanor. “[A short time ago you will recall reports that the terrorists hit several Indian labs and factories Arjun was setting up in the Arabian region. At the time, we were concerned that they had been compromised. We were assured that wasn’t the case, and only material damage had been inflicted.]”

“[Turns out, the local Resistance to Arjun has been relentless.]” Luka said. “[Their strikes have been nothing short of zealous, effective, and precise. Their success has given them a morale boost, and the Arabian cell is being locally referred to as the ‘Sandmen.’ They’ve been lionizing them, making them recruitment propaganda. It seems to have had the intended effect]”

He knowingly paused. “[Given the evidence we have now, I would say that _someone_ was lying. Unless the Egyptians have moles in our development teams – which is absurdly unlikely – it is not out of the question that the terrorists passed the schematics they found to the Egyptians. They’ve not been on our radar – at all – which is why we had only minimal operations, and even then our sources reported nothing out of the ordinary.]”

Clovis closed his eyes, feeling the distinct urge to hit something as he considered the implications. “[So, to ensure I understand this correctly, the terrorists hit Indian labs. These labs contain our next-generation schematics. They exfiltrate with said schematics. So you’re saying that the terrorists have these, is that right?]”

“[That appears to be the case, General Secretary.]”

“[Wonderful,]” Clovis breathed. “[And if _that_ is the case, then it is guaranteed that the Israelis and British_ also_ have them, and their industry is _much_ more developed than the Egyptians.]” He realized his fist was clenched, and he directly relaxed himself. It did little good to cloud his mind with rage.

No. Cold. Directed focus. That was what he needed now. Clarity.

His voice was calm, if laced with ice as he addressed Luka. “[I want you to have Arjun give a _complete_ inventory of what the terrorists now had – and also convey to him that if he lies to us again, then he will have far more to fear than these terrorists.]”

“[He’ll likely insist someone else lied to him,]” Luka said.

“[Of course he will,]” Clovis said slowly. “[Bring the CIA and MSS into the loop. Purge every single Indian operative in our countries and send them back to New Delhi. I believe that should send the message clear enough.]”

Luka nodded grimly. “[Understood, General Secretary.]”

“[We’ve coddled the Indians long enough,]” Clovis muttered. “[This is becoming untenable.]”

“[Mistakes do happen,]” Calumet risked saying.

_Not when there is so much at stake._ “[There are times, Commander, where mere mistakes mean the difference between success and failure. Right now we are dealing with an African uprising because of his _mistake_ – in what is _already_ a precarious situation, while knowing that the terrorists _also_ have these weapons. They should pray that _only_ weapons were stolen.]”

“[It’s confirmed,]” Luka interrupted. “[Social media is lighting up. There are Egyptian officers in the other North African countries, the respective leaders are giving speeches now. Troops are surging into the major cities, local police are making arrests and detaining attaches and foreigners.]”

“[It seems Nairouz released a statement,]” Calumet said. “[He says that all Triumvirate personnel who surrender will be deported without incident. He claims to not want confrontation, but he does not believe the Triumvirate has the interests of Africa at heart, and ‘seeks to enslave Africa under Western rule once more’.]”

“[I suppose he forgot about the Chinese,]” Clovis muttered.

“[He’s also confirmed that this is a coordinated and sustained effort by all the previously named countries,]” Luka added. “[This is the official declaration of the apparent North African Junta, which he says will remain in effect until it can be safely determined that the independence and safety of the Junta is assured.]”

“[Not especially subtle,]” Clovis snorted. “[At least he’s being honest about what it is. No thin veneer of democracy this time. Can’t call him a hypocrite. Has he mentioned the terrorists at all?]”

“[Not that I’ve seen,]” Calumet shook her head. “[Not surprising. Nairouz is savvy, and he hates Islamists. I doubt there is a sustained alliance, it’s more likely that they gave the schematics to him out of a hope he’d do something, not because they wanted to help him. Thus far neither Israel or the United Kingdom has made a statement, I don’t know if we should expect one.]”

“[The question now is how we respond.]” Luka said. “[We have options. We engage the Junta diplomatically, and see if there is an agreement we can come to. This is unlikely to work, considering Nairouz’s historic distrust of the Triumvirate, and that three of the countries were previously in economic agreements with us. He’s going to want concessions, tangible ones, which we won’t provide.]”

“[Second, we ignore them,]” he continued. “[They want attention to some degree. If we starve them of attention, resources, and the spotlight, it is possible the regime will collapse. While we don’t know if there will be significant reforms, or if this is only signaling, it is unlikely a unified Junta over Africa is feasible in the long-term, especially given the high Muslim populations in Algeria and Libya, which will undoubtably clash with Nairouz’s anti-Islamist policies.]”

Another, final pause. “[Or we put this down immediately, and end any direct threat to us. This would normally not be suggested, but they have our technology. It could be justified. This would further alienate Valentin and other TERRA ONE personnel, but it is arguable that this outcome is inevitable.]”

“[Noted,]” Clovis said, rubbing his chin. “[Your recommendations?]”

“[My instinct says the second option,]” Luka said. “[The first is a waste of time, and I’m concerned the last one could play into his hands, or could be easily anticipated. This Junta will not pose a threat, and will likely collapse in the near future. Applying sanctions and media pressure will turn them toxic to the continent.]”

“[Or it could inspire Africa to form an independent bloc,]” Calumet added.

“[Possible, but unlikely,]” Luka shook his head. “[The Africans are hardly a united group. They break along religious, ethnic, and national lines the same as the rest of the Human species. They are not going to ally with each other just because they come from the same continent.]”

“[Hatred and a perceived larger enemy can be a powerful binder,]” Clovis said thoughtfully. “[They would not need every African to join – only some of them. If Ethiopia did so…that would be problematic. Even smaller ones would give them necessary staying power.]”

“[Regardless, this is hypothetical,]” Luka said. “[Based on what we know _now_, that is what I would recommend, General Secretary. As well as calling a meeting of the Central Committee.]”

“[Which I will do,]” Clovis waved a hand. “[However, both of your opinions matter more, and I do not intend to waste time with frivolous _debate_ when such a situation requires _action_. Commander?]”

“[My recommendation is simple, General Secretary,]” she jutted her chin out. “[Crush this Junta before it has the chance to thrive. Purge these insurgents and remind the world the fate of those who intend to defy us. Nabeel al-Nairouz wishes war. Give it to him.]”

There were two clear options. Normally, he would defer to Luka’s approach. Logically, it made the most sense. It would give an easy diplomatic win, would likely placate Valentin and the other Traveler puppets who would cry about “aggression” otherwise. Perhaps the Junta would collapse, or perhaps it would endure.

Clovis wasn’t convinced that the terrorists weren’t involved in some way, and if the Junta was allowed to thrive, it was laughably short-sighted to think the Israelis and British wouldn’t exploit it for all it was worth, and perhaps force it to stay together. If there was an alliance, then that might be how Nairouz planned to keep the Muslims in line.

However, he was…tired. Tired of pretending that these insurgents, terrorists, and rebels _deserved_ the benefits of the doubt, that they deserved being treated like equals. That they deserved the opportunity for diplomacy, that they should be ignored as if they would go away. But they would not go away, they never went away, attention or not, they would always come back and cause chaos and defiance.

Pretending to restrain himself to appease the moralists and ideologues was a pointless endeavor. It didn’t matter what he did, how he treated the enemies which threatened all he had built, it would never be enough. They did not want consideration or compromise, only complete slavish capitulation to their own visions of the world, complete with sickening self-righteousness.

He was so very _tired_ of compromising now. This was a situation that demanded a firm action, one which would solidify who he was and what direction he intended to take. This was not a choice between diplomacy, ignorance, or invasion – it was between if he would allow the Triumvirate to be threatened by insects or exterminate them like the pests they were.

The velvet glove had failed. These were people who wished to see the Triumvirate destroyed and he dead.

Why should he coddle them?

Why should they be treated as equals?

If the Traveler took issue, if Valentin intervened, then they would simply have to live with it. They were welcome to make their move, and if this was going to accelerate to a new phase, then he had best prepare for it. If he capitulated now, he might as well hand the reins over to Valentin for good.

These were the times that defined men.

“[Commander Calumet,]” he finally said. “[Prepare the Red Army for deployment. Within six hours, the Soviet Union will enter into a state of war. I will no longer tolerate any entity that threatens the Triumvirate. Crush this insurgency, Commander, and scatter the ashes to the winds. Is that understood?]”

She saluted, a gleam of approval in her eyes. “[Yes, General Secretary. It will be done.]”

***

TO BE CONTINUED IN **CHAPTER XV | JUPITER**

***

_WORLD MAP | CHAPTER XIV_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Special thanks to Sevoris for writing most of the Deep Stone Crypt section. Very revised and improved from the original scene I sent to him, and properly conveyed the right tone I was going for in how the Exos are created here. Hope everyone reading had a good Thanksgiving, and Merry Christmas for the coming holiday season. Thank you for reading, and enjoy the little map I put at the end.


End file.
